


Found & Returned

by leo_minor



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: (come get your farmer randall content part 2), AU - Randall goes out to find Henry, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete, Friendship, M/M, Other, Pre-Canon, Reunions, Roadtrip, Temporary Amnesia, Travel, Village life, or AU - Randall reads a newspaper for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_minor/pseuds/leo_minor
Summary: Memories come and go, in Randall's case more than most. Five years after being whacked right out of him, they find their way back, on the front page of an outdated newspaper. He's got to go out there and find the young man on the cover, he'll walk across the desert if he must, from Craggy Dale to Monte D'Or. So he tells his friends : I've got to find Henry Ledore !To which his friends reply : Well, what are you waiting for ?
Relationships: Randall Ascot & Firth, Randall Ascot & Henry Ledore, Randall Ascot/Henry Ledore
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lost & Found](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181078) by [leo_minor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_minor/pseuds/leo_minor). 



> hello ! just a bit of pre-reading information : this story is part of a duo, with my other randall/henry fic, Lost & Found. In that one Henry found Randall in Craggy Dale - this time around Randall's memory returns, and he goes out to find Henry in Monte D'Or ! They have the same setting and set of extra characters. However, since they bear no actual plot link, this story can be enjoyed completely independently !
> 
> other than that, i have to point out that this ended up being largely a story that looks into the relationships Randall formed in Craggy Dale. And I got very invested, and so it grew longer and longer... Henry actually shows his (admittedly pretty) face rather late on, but I very much hope I made it all worth reading and (dare I say) fun anyway !
> 
> enjoy your read !!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (obligatory "Tannenbaum is Firth's name in the UK version of the game" disclaimer before we get stuck in !)

“You feelin’ alright, son ?”

is the question that Tannenbaum asks not for the first nor last time of the morning, the question he’ll keep reformulating just slightly to elicit a response, the question he’ll end up keeping to himself, ever-living concern, a murmur under his breath that’s all but futile anyway – the boy isn’t feeling alright, no. If he were, he wouldn’t have spent the past hour staring into the small mirror that hangs from their bathroom wall, occasionally wiping the rusty edges of the glass with his shirt sleeve. There’s something up with him today. Something new.

Again the boy drags his sleeve across the surface, and utters a very small sigh. Tannenbaum watches him lift his other hand and push his hair up and out of his face, hoping to find something no doubt. The only thing worth noting under all the ginger curls is the sharp white scar that runs from his left temple to his eyebrow, what’s left of a five-year-old, very nasty fall. Today the boy is nearly well glaring at it, like it’s done something to wrong him. He withdraws his hand and lets his fringe settle back into place, obscuring all but the intense look in his eyes. That’s brand new, too.

“Tan,” he says suddenly.

The bearded man, too engrossed in his worry, misses it entirely and goes on to scratch his head.

“Tan.”

His hand falls immediately, limp by his side. He glances back into the mirror, and the young man is glancing back. “Yes, m’boy ?”

“I’ve just remembered a lot of things,” he mutters, and reaches up to touch his scar again. When he speaks again his voice is stronger. “Everything, at once. My name, for a start.”

“Is that so,” the man says, because he doesn’t want to prod him too hard. It’s good news, the best news they’ve received since Maureen’s cow gave birth safely and all in the barn next door, and considerably better news at that, but the boy isn’t smiling yet. He looks like he’s got a lot to sort through before allowing himself a grin, something Tan can understand. Seventeen or eighteen years of his life to process. Popping open a wine bottle can wait a few more minutes.

The boy hums a confirmation, and touches briefly the bridge of his nose. “Not just mine, though – someone else’s.”

“And who might that be ?”

This is a mighty important question indeed, and it has the boy’s eyebrows all knit together. Unbothered by his guardian’s cautious gaze he ponders this a long moment, and whether what he finds is his answer or not is irrelevant, because his eyes widen and the reality of the situation _(I remember !)_ hits him like a brick. Tan holds his breath. His head of red hair bounces up and down for a moment, carried by the tremor of – thank goodness, a laugh ! The boy’s smiling in the mirror, smiling like he’s five years younger, and when he turns to face Tan, he looks radiant. He throws his arms around his mentor and Tan accepts the hug with wide arms and bone-crushing tightness.

He feels the boy’s laugh, the air blowing out of his nose upsetting the knots and strands of hair all tangled up across his shoulders, and joins in on it when the kid speaks again, his tone both cheeky and hopeful :

“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of glasses lying around, would you ?”

“Henry Ledore,”

on the cover of today’s newspaper, the one that’s lying on their coffee table with two distinctively tear-shaped marks stamped onto the bottom paragraph that Tan has the tact not to mention. The edge of the pages are crumpled, the paper discoloured by a tint by sweaty, eager hands. His hands, the hands of the young man he was two hours ago when his name was still a substitute for one he’d forgotten, had gripped at it for dear life to face the flood of memories that were returning home, five years late. Craggy Dale had called him Boy for those five years, having no other name to call him by and Boy was the one who’d caught the newspaper when the new paperboy had tossed it at him from his bike. Collin, that’s his name. And Collin had shouted :

“Good mornin’, Boy !”

And he’d waved back at the kid until he disappeared behind a sand cloud, because hey, it was a good morning. The sun was shining but not blinding, the air flowed but didn’t bite, and he was plenty busy, the way he liked to be most. Crops to water, animals to feed, and breakfast to be scarfed down at some point between tasks. As always Tan liked to keep him on his toes, egging him on, and had left the windows and front door wide open so the smell of fried sausages and buttered toast floated right into his face. It was a motivational system that had never failed – it certainly wouldn’t this morning. He had no idea what day it was, and in a place like Craggy Dale, where the corner shop’s always open and they’ve always got salt-n-vinegar squares, every day resembled the next. The way weeks blended into months had been excruciating until he learnt to keep a full schedule. Now the desert village was his home, not just the place he’d ended up in, and that was fine.

He’d tucked the newspaper under his arm and gone strolling down the street, errands to run, people to wave at. A duck into the shop had gotten him the two blocks of salted butter Tan had been moaning about for days and a fresh bottle of juice. A duck back out had gotten him a loud and public greeting from Vincent, who had yet to grow out of sitting on the edge of rooves. If Vincent hadn’t been his friend, Boy might have considered shoving him off, one of those days. Actually, he had anyway. Regularly.

“Hey, Boy !” he’d yelled, his nose turning bright red with the intensity of it. Boy’d been certain even the farmers way down the street had heard that loud and clear. “Boy ! Happy birthday !”

“Funny man !” he’d yelled back, smiling behind the sarcasm, because it was old, but it was still Vince. “That one’s brand new ! Got any other ones ?”

But Vince didn’t – only this one. No one had any idea when Boy’s birthday might be, starting with himself – memory loss can strip you from the most basic of things. When Vincent had discovered this, what, two or three months back, he’d decided it would be simply hilarious to wish it to him every day.

“On the off chance,” he’d said. He said it again now, and Boy just shook his head.

“Fuck off, Vince !”

“Big boy words, I see !” the blond boy had laughed, and stood up just to watch him go back over the small sand crest that made the path rise. “You kiss Tan with that fuckin’ mouth ?”

“Only on special occasions,” he’d called over his shoulder, “Like Christmas !”

Vince had offered a perfunctory ha-ha and gone back to staring at the sun, or whatever he did on that roof of his when left to his own devices. Boy skipped one step out of two on the way back, strolling through the breeze of sand and pebbles that rolled across the path without so much as a wheeze. Practice makes perfect. He’s walked down this road thousands of times by now, and were it anywhere else he’d have gotten well fed up with it years ago – an unfortunate thought, when your village consists of just the one, hugely long street – but not in the Dale, never in the Dale. Even when the weather turned and the flowers withered, and the fields turned barren and grey, there was always the canyon. Big and many shades of brown and red, towering above the little town even from a distance. Every year the stone facades would grow new types of foliage and change the face of the walls, moulding them into shapes, new peaks and curves and dips. You couldn’t get bored watching the canyon, not when it showed itself anew every single day. Sometimes, in the summer when the sun set late and slowly and threw a pink-tinted veil across the valleys, he’d lie in the backyard, with his head propped up on a stack of hay, and just watch the light wander the cliffsides, slipping into even the smallest cracks. He’d watch and wonder how much bigger it all must have looked thousands of years ago, and if someone else had watched then, just like him, the sun dip over the mountains.

Then he’d go back inside, shivering under the touch of the night’s first winds, and Tan would laugh at the bits of hay and grass tangled up in his hair. Today Tan only laughed at him because he’d seen him so deeply mesmerised by the ridge that he’d tripped up over his own feet right in front of the house and almost dropped the glass bottle he was carrying.

“That’s enough, Tan !” Boy had protested indignantly as his guardian shook with another round of laughter. The man wheezed under all that beard and had to reach out for the table to ready himself. He looked back up at the young man and his eyes had twinkled merrily, just enough to pull Boy out of his embarrassment. He’d smiled long enough to add : “Aren’t you used to seeing me fall by now ?”

The butter was deposited in the fridge, and the juice poured into two glasses. Boy had taken his over to the little armchair they kept close to the backyard door and sunk into it with a grateful sigh. Juice drained and feet up he’d removed the newspaper from the crook of his arm at last and shaken it loudly to smooth out the creases. Tan, in the kitchen pouring brown sauce onto their breakfast, had inquired as to what the world was up to today, and received no answer over the sound of sizzling oil. He’d asked another time, just to make sure he hadn’t missed Boy’s inevitable, witty quip, but to no avail. And so he’d stepped back into the living room and found the young man staring at the paper’s front page, looking very pale indeed.

His first “You feelin’ alright, son ?” was uttered.

But Boy – or was it Randall, at this point ? – had stayed silent. He’d remained so for a full twenty minutes by the clock hanging crooked from the wall behind him, until being so still, frozen in time, became too much, and he promptly stood and disappeared into the bathroom.

Scene.

Back to the beginning.

Which takes us back to

“Henry Ledore,”

on the cover of today’s newspaper, the one that’s lying on their coffee table with two marks stamped onto the bottom paragraph which are definitely tears, and that Tan has still not mentioned to the young man sitting across the table from him. He’s wearing a thin-rimmed pair of glasses with large, round lenses that had been sleeping at the bottom of this or that cupboard for a large part of its life, and although terribly out of style, the frames look at home on his nose. Other than this addition, he still looks like the boisterous kid Tan’s come to know and love over the past five years, ‘n he’s smiling like him, too, but something has changed. No – an empty space has been filled in.

Still, Tan knows change is inevitable. For instance, his Boy turns out to be called

“Randall ?”

“Yep,” young man in question nods. The revelation hasn’t left him particularly bothered.

“Hm,” Tan says.

Boy – no, that’s not right – stifles a laugh. “You don’t like it ?”

“ ‘s very upper class, ain’t it ?”

“I _was_ upper class,” he shrugs, but there’s a note of distaste on his face. “Before I fell off a cliff. I don’t think I missed out on much, though. I always wanted to –“

“Fall off a cliff ?” Tan jokes, hiding a smile under his beard. He tries to imagine him sipping champagne out of a tiny glass at a soirée and getting a suit fitted, he who was happiest digging into the ground for this or that stone. He who came home yelling when he found something that wasn’t just a rock, faced covered in grime. Come on !

“Have adventures. Live big things. Learn lots.” He pauses to tuck a palm under his chin and lean in against the table. “It wasn’t exactly encouraged.”

Tan can guess.

“That life wasn’t for me, and I knew it. The one thing I missed out on is my friends.”

The old man watches him bow his head. There’s a short moment during which even his breathing is muffled, all his energy concentrated into staring at his knees.

“I love Craggy Dale,” he says at last, hands joined on the tabletop. His fingers entwine tightly. “It’s my home. It’s where I live, where I met all my friends. But I’d forgotten I even had a childhood ! I’d forgotten about my mother, my father – no great loss there ! – and the people I grew up with, too. Angela, Hershel, and –“

“Henry,” Tan suggests, giving the newspaper a small nudge.

“Henry, most of all ! I’ve known him my whole life, Tan. He’s in even my earliest memories, when I was three or four, I hadn’t lived a day without him, and suddenly he stopped existing for five years.”

“But ‘e helped you remember, didn’t he ?” he puts gently, and feels a surge of concern when the kid’s eyes fail to light up. “It was still with you, m’boy. They were never really gone.”

“Yes and no, I suppose.” Randall’s expression has taken a glum turn. The joy of having his memories returned to him has clearly begun to fade into reasons why he might have wanted to forget in the first place. “Where are they now ? Five years might not be that long, but it was enough for Henry to have a city to his name.” He gives an aggravated sigh and runs a hand across his forehead. “I’ve made a right old mess of things. I forgot about them, but I don’t think they forgot about _me,_ Jesus, I must have made them all so miserable.”

“Another way to see it,” Tan smiles, “would be that they’re ‘bout to get the best news of their lives.”

This makes his boy pause and consider for a moment, fingers still threaded in his hair, slumped forward against the table. In fact, it wins a very small, very tentative smile out of him, and despite small shakes of the head and a whole lot of blinking, Tan gets the privilege of watching it grow.

“Five years can be a very long time like it can be nothin’, you know ? It all depends on what ye make of it. Hard to figure out where to start, hm ?”

Randall nods.

“Well, I reckon the first step is always to reach out. Ain’t it now ?”

“It is,” he agrees, and has to bite down another smile. “I’ve changed quite a bit. Bet they’ll get a right old kick out of that !”

“The first change they’ll notice is prob’ly the fact you’re there, ‘n not gone,” Tan says, “But I expect they’ll get to the rest soon enough.”

“ ‘sides, they’ve changed too. I can laugh right back !” Randall snickers, index drumming over the front page. “Henry’s definitely tryin’ to grow a beard.”

Tan allows him a few uninterrupted seconds of staring at the picture. There’s something gleaming in his boy’s eyes that’s warm and fond, and growing.

“I need to go and meet him,” he tells Tan, in a voice that lets the man know more than what’s being said. It’s obvious, isn’t it, that he cares for this one more than he knows, subconsciously, so much that he’s very gradually becoming aware. He looks up quite suddenly, eyes bearing right into his mentor’s. “Monte D’Or, Tan. That’s a trip we can make, right ?”

“Easily,” says the man who’d gone through most of Switzerland and Germany on foot, a memorable three weeks of October, to win a bet.

His certainty triples Randall’s determination. “Then we’re going ! As soon as we can ! You’ll come with me, Tan ?”

Tan, who has never agreed to anything more doubtlessly in his life, gives him a clean nod.

And thus, the kid’s back on his feet.

It’s decided – he’s going to see Henry in Monte D’Or, right away. He’ll cross the desert on foot if he has to, but this is something that no one can take from him. He’ll go to Henry and he’ll thank him for bringing back the memories he’d lost and then he’ll probably give the poor man a chance to slap him for all the troubles he’d caused him. Henry won’t, he’ll gasp, and Randall will be so glad to hear that gasp he thinks he might even cry. Five years ! He’s been dead to him for five years. Five years of grief, and – it’s a terrible thought – blaming himself. Right away, he’s going to Monte D’Or right away.

But first, there’s someone else he needs to

_(apologise)_

talk to, and urgently. He runs into the living room, nearly knocking over their ceramic lamp, and makes for the phone. Hands shaky, he holds the receiver to his ear and dials a London call centre out of the phone book. The ringing is so loud down the line ! There’s a clicking sound, and a woman greets him briefly with a good day sir, what can I do for you ?

“Hello,” he speaks into the phone. “Could I get a number for Hershel Layton, please ? I don’t – I don’t have an area code, no. Could you maybe try… Gressenheller University ?”

There’s tense silence on the other side of the line. It’s a wild guess, a guess out of the blue, one he has to trust his gut with. Hershel, wherever he is, is in his fourth year of studies. On his way to getting a masters. With marks like his, he could be anywhere across Britain, but let it be Gressenheller – _please,_ let it be Gressenheller, because if it isn’t, Randall won’t know where to start.

“Hershel Layton, central London,” his correspondent says at last, and the relief makes him feel so dizzy he almost misses the string of numbers she gives him next. He thanks her and wishes her a bloody good day, hangs up, and dials again. The knot in his throat would make a sailor proud.

Ring ring.

Silence.

Ring ring…

Click. “Hello ? Layton speaking.”

“Morning, Hersh. Long-time no speak !”

Tannenbaum’s sitting on their front step, giving his boy a bit of space. There’s a lit cigarette at the corner of his mouth, one he’d rather the kid didn’t see, not because he’d lied about stopping but because he was doing so a bit slower than planned. Randall will give him a monumental telling-off if he catches him, he thinks, and exhales a mouthful of smoke into the morning air. With his back against the door, he can hear the kid laugh and tear up at uneven intervals. Having the conversation of a lifetime, quite literally.

His heart nearly stops when the door-handle narrowly misses the side of his ribs – he manages to stamp his smoke out before Randall can push the door fully open. The air reeks of tobacco, and so do his clothes, but the kid’s in too much of a rush to be perceptive, it seems. There’s an intense glint in his eye that suggests he’s got something more urgent on his mind, and there’s no space for anything else. In other words, typical Boy.

“Going into town !” he tells Tan, already turning his back on him. “I’ve got to find us some crewmates !”

“For the desert trip, m’boy ? Who’re you takin’ ?” the old man calls, but Randall’s already halfway up the street, leaving a trail of dust and sand in his wake. Tan watches him run until he disappears behind the first row of barns, and fetches his cigarette pack out of his pocket. He looks at it for a moment, and then looks up at the sky, and thinks, to hell with it. If he’s goin’ on a trip again, his lungs best be clean.

He tosses his lighter into the bin on his way to the kitchen.

Randall’s first destination is an obvious one. There’s no real rush – the person he’s looking for is always in the same place, no matter the time of the day – but there’s so much adrenaline pumping through him that any pace slower than a jog would drive him mad. He runs all the way up the main street and takes a sharp right, breathing in sand and hot air and the occasional pebble. By the time he skids to a halt, his lungs feel like they’re on fire. He splutters a little in the shade of the barn and tries to look up.

“Nice glasses, posh boy,” Vince immediately remarks, with his usual cutting wit. He has the decency to wait for Randall to catch his breath before administering the next blow : “You ain’t goin’ all Oxbridge on us, are ye ?”

“Piss off,” he manages between sharp pants. His hands are on his knees and his back bent forward in a weak attempt to manage the pain in his ribs. He takes a deliberate moment to straighten the frames on top of his nose and grins loosely : “One of us has gotta have some class !”

“Class has me written all over it, baby !”

“Don’t you mean that _you_ have –“ He shakes his head. “Forget that. Been in the mood for some adventurin’ lately ?”

Vincent, a young man of twenty years who has never left his village, let alone his roof, shakes his head with remarkable nonchalance. “Not particularly.”

“Well, could you pretend to be so I can make a proposal anyway ?”

“Aw, _gee_ ,” he drawls, in what Randall guesses is supposed to be an American accent. It makes him sound like he’s piss drunk. “I’ve so been _longing_ to escape this place. Take me with you, Boy ! Let’s run away together and explore that canyon !”

Vincent doesn’t need to know that he got here by falling off said canyon cliff, at least not right now. He’d just be so, overwhelmingly smug. “Very good acting. You shoulda gotten a bus up to London and made it a career.”

“Yeah, I coulda played the Fool,” the blond grins. His legs swing over the edge of the rooftop. “So ? Proposal ?”

Randall pulls the newspaper out of his back pocket. It’s bent out of shape from his little run but spared of any rips. “Ever heard of Monte D’Or ?” he asks, and starts leafing through the pages.

“Nope.”

“New town. On its way to becoming a city. Lots of big names moved over there and invested. Casinos, hotels, you name it. Hold on a second –“ He tears through the political column and the obituary, which are becoming scarily similar these days, and extracts the front page from the mess. He hands it over to his friend. “Specifically, this guy.”

Vince peers at the black and white picture with his eyes narrowed to a slit. “Henry Ledore. Suit ‘n tie kinda fella like all the others, ain’t he ? What’s so special about him ?”

“He’s an old friend of mine,” Randall says, and feels like it’s a bit of an understatement. “My oldest friend. Closest one, too. I want to find him.”

“Shut the fuckin’ front door !” Vince gasps, and looks down at the photo again. “Your oldest mate ? You’re tellin’ me you’re rememberin’ things, Boy ?”

“Yeah. Everything, actually.”

“Can I ask you a question, then ?”

Randall blinks. That’s a remarkably casual reaction, and he realises he’s very grateful for it. No big fuss. He’s caused enough of those over the years.

“Course,” he agrees too quickly, and by the time he lifts his head up to glance at Vincent again, it’s too late to take it back. He’s red in the face, like he’s trying hard not to laugh.

“When’s your birthday, then ?”

“Fuck’s sake,” he huffs, only ‘cause it’s his only escape from laughing too. “You really wanna know ? You’re gonna lose your wittiest joke, and everyone knows you’ve only got the one.”

“Just tell me, mate. The suspense, it’s been killing me.”

“October 26th. This is definitely not the sort of question I was expecting.” His neck is starting to ache from all the looking up, and Vince doesn’t seem intent on hopping down. He shields his face with his right hand and raises the left. “So ? Road trip, you in ? Big flashy city across the desert ?”

“Dunno,” Vince says, offering an ornamental shrug. “Will there be girls ?”

His eyeballs are itching to roll backwards. “You’re a hopeless case, Vincent.”

A pause.

“Yeah, there’ll be a ton of girls. Cute ones wearing pretty skirts and everything. London sorta gals.”

“Hell, I’m in,” Vince nods immediately, and grins a shit-eating grin like no other. “Come on, man – I’m kiddin’. O’ course I’ll come with ye ! I’m gonna breathe the fresh fuckin’ air of the outside world. Let’s find this bloke for ye and visit every hotel lobby twice and steal all the peanuts, right ? When we leavin’ ?”

“Alright !” He has to resist punching the air. Things are starting to come together, plans emerging little by little. His last may have been catastrophic, but this expedition will be a success. He offers Vincent a hand and the blond shakes it amiably, and there’s something kind of touching about his smile. This might be his first time using _that_ adjective to describe this particularly man. “How about tomorrow ?”

Vince raises an eyebrow. “You bein’ real ?”

“No,” Randall assures him, but he is. What he’s also being is too anxious. “Three days’ time, that’s fair, right ? It’ll give us a bit of time to pack and stock up and make sure we’ve got our route sorted.”

“I’ll be leavin’ that to you, Boy.” He crosses his arms behind his head and stretches. “You’re the strategist, I’m the lounger.”

Randall tells him he expected no more of him and that he’ll go talk to the others, something he’s mighty eager to do right away. There’s a lot to plan, a lot to prepare, and he’s in a hurry like never before. But Vince drops his arms back onto the roof and gives him a quizzical look that stops him in his tracks feet from the barn.

The others, Vince asks, head cocked.

“Yes, the others. You think the two of us can make it all the way to the other side of the desert on our own ?”

“Actually, yeah,” the young man says.

Well, so had he, isn’t that right ? And it had brought him all the way here.

“Who else is comin’, then ? Who’s on the crew ?”

To this Randall only scratches his head. “Well…”

Clarence Wilson’s only just moved to Craggy Dale, aye. Been here barely six weeks, maybe seven. So he’d told Randall the first time they’d crossed paths, and the second, and each time after that, because Clarence Wilson is one of those people who need to keep talking like they need oxygen. In Clarence’s case the former might be ranked above the latter in order of importance, judging by the shortness of the pauses he incorporates into his speech.

“And she says, well you’re just a dirty dog, Wilson ! All hoity-toity, right, at which point I just have to interrupt on account of she won’t let me speak or defend myself, for my dignity, you know how it is with women, son –“

Randall, who has only had one girlfriend and not begun to understand her, has no idea what the man is talking about, and settles on nodding encouragingly every time Clarence’s intonation changes, which, like any good Welshman, is quite a lot. The man has taken up the job of milkman for the Dale, and other than the occasional lateness he’s a reliable fellow, but he just can’t stop talking. Randall knows some of the other villagers hide when they hear the milk bottles a-clinkin’ to avoid his little rants, and while he himself has got one big mouth on him, he can’t blame them ! Clarence just doesn’t know when to stop. Today is no different, and the rush Randall’s in makes the retelling of the bloke’s unfortunate divorce all the more difficult to sit through.

“ ‘cept there’s the kid, right ? It’s all about the kid. She’s eight, turnin’ nine in November, lovely little girl, well-mannered and all. Had her all set up to go to a cosy school in Cardiff, an all-girls one, mind you, and now her mother wants to move back to bloody Leamington and take her along !”

“Terribly rude of her,” Randall puts in politely.

“Ain’t that just so ! An’ I know Leamington alright, I’m good at maps, maps are my thing, yeah ? And that place is miserable, you know, miserable like the fuckin’ north of France. All of France, actually.” He pauses to contemplate this, and notices the young man standing in front of him polishing his glasses. A faint blush rises over his stubbled cheeks. “My, I’m so sorry, Boy. I do tend to drag on. Can I help you with anythin’ that isn’t milk-related ? Or that is, for that matter.”

Sensing that the man might go for a cheeky extra tirade if given the chance, Randall seizes the opportunity. “Well, yeah, as it turns out ! I’m planning a little expedition to a town across the desert. Monte D’Or, ‘s all over the news. Heard of it, Clarence ?”

Clarence has heard of Monte D’Or, everyone has, aye – the town’s buildin’ itself a nice little reputation, poppin’ up in the papers regularly despite bein’ in the middle of fucking nowhere. Who’d want to book a posh hotel in what’s essentially a sandpit, only to discover that other than the odd palm tree, the desert makes up most of the view ?

“We won’t be going for the view, not exactly,” Randall points out, his glasses by then thoroughly polished and back on his nose. He’s still got the newspaper front page, folded in his pocket, and holds it out for Clarence to see. “The founder, he’s a dear friend of mine. I wanna pay him a visit, say hello – catch up, too, there’s a lot of that to do. I haven’t seen him in five years, and he… probably thinks I’m dead.” His perfunctory laugh does not help that line go down any smoother. “And, you know, we’ll probably throw a passing glance at all the, well, _casinos_ and _cinemas_ and _showrooms_ while we’re there.”

If the milkman had been shuffling doubtfully from one foot to the next, the mention of the word ‘casino’ has him dancing on his toes, bright-eyed and eager. He shoves his unshaven face forward and shows off a huge, bone-breaking nod that makes his neck nearly pop. “What’d you need me for, son ? Mappin’, ain’t it ? I’ll help out, o’ course I will, mighty big of you to go after your friend. Strongest thing in life, friendship. Friendship and family. Makes me think of my little girl.”

Randall, sensing the man going all misty-eyed, opens his mouth to confirm, but Clarence’s got his chin back up high and he’s talking over him again.

“Only one condition, just the one – let me come along. I’ve never seen anyplace any more excitin’ than the Welsh coast, and man, I’m gettin’ along in my years. It’s mighty time something more eventful than drivin’ a van of furniture out of town happened in my life. How about it ?”

“I’m sure we can arrange that just fine,” the young man says, resisting a smile. Certainly they can – it’s already arranged ! “We should be leaving in three days. That sound alright ?”

The look on Clarence’s face suggests that it is.

“This is it, Tan – we’ve got ourselves a crew !”

“That was quick,” the man remarks, but even his tone fails to convey much surprise in that regard. When his boy – call him what you like ! – wants something done, he gets it done. His beard bristles with a smile. “You satisfied with it bein’ just the four of us ?”

Randall relieves him of his bags humming a merry tune. Tan’s been shoppin’, busy busy, stocking up on anything and everything they might need on their little expedition. It sounds all fancy said like that, but frankly, it’s mostly water and it’s been killing his wrists, carrying it most of the afternoon. His boy sticks his nose into each one of them and gives the contents a rapid glance. “It should be fine ! You’ve got the travelling experience, don’t you, and Clarence’ll map us out the quickest route. Vince is mostly just muscle to get us there, pump up our numbers. It’s dangerous to travel without a good core group, right ?” He snorts into one of the bags. “Oh, and moral support.”

“Mmh, that’s important,” Tan tells the street. He’s done his fair share of travelling over the years, yes indeed. When he’d trekked up to Glasgow on foot that fateful summer of his younger years, moral support had been all those stops along the way, seeking out the most run-down, loud pubs he could find. There’d always been a funny one to call him ‘weary traveller’ and by no other name. Without fail, someone would offer a pint. There’d been a lot of weird buggers, too, but he remembers it all quite fondly.

Randall, with his head out of the bags, gives his chin an inquisitive nod. “Reminiscing ?”

“I get that look, ‘ey ? The old man lost in his thoughts look ?”

“Your eyes are glazing over,” Randall grins.

“I’m just a’ that age,” Tan says, and winks. “ ‘ve lost complete control over me optical nerves. Was just thinkin’ of the people I crossed paths with – bet I’ve told you about that madman I ran into in Motherwell –”

“Jamie ? The one that bit you ?”

“So t’was.” This is one of the memories that only gets funnier over time, no matter how terrifying it was in the heat of the moment. Just remembering the look on the man’s face sends Tan cackling. Randall, who’s heard the story a hundred times, isn’t exempt and looks at his mentor with an amused smile that’s widening by the second. They’re both busy laughing and sharing the moment, very busy indeed, so when someone tugs on Randall’s shirt, he actually _yelps._

The yelp is followed by a grand old shudder, a lot of frantic blinking, and after a lot of that the young man succeeds in showing an expression that’s nearly normal-looking. There’s a girl standing besides him, with a hand still grasping his shirt. She tugs again.

He looks at Tan. Tan looks back. Neither of them had heard her approach.

“I don’t think I’m _that_ frightening,” she says, making them jump again. Happy to have been noticed, she lets her hand drop back to her side. “I even brushed my hair before going out. Daddy says that if I don’t, I look like I’ve crawled out of a forest or fallen out of a tree.”

“Hello !” Randall kneels to her height once his legs have stopped shaking. “Are you from around here, love ?”

The reason he asks this isn’t because of her appearance, although it’s certainly telling. The girl is no more than nine or ten, perhaps a very round-faced eleven, with a long mane of brown hair sort of floating behind her, loose strands aplenty, suggesting a recent brushing indeed. She’s wearing a lovely pleated skirt and a pressed white shirt sporting a large blue bow around the collar. Everything about her screams private school, and take it from him ; he’s been there. But her outfit isn’t what tips him off first, no – it’s her accent.

“No,” she says, without an ounce of shyness. “My name is Lizzy. I’m here on a trip with my Daddy.”

This little girl talks upper-class. No one in Craggy Dale has that nonchalance. With a little shiver of discomfort, he realises that her accent in every aspect resembles his father’s.

“It’s a pleasure, Lizzy. How are you enjoying the Dale so far ?” He gives Tan a side-glance, and they’re probably sharing the same thought – she can’t have been here long, or the whole village would be talking. “Bit sandy, isn’t it ?”

“Well, of course, we’re in the _desert,_ ” she tuts, and rolls her eyes. “We’ve only just arrived, but I like it already. It’s really quiet ! You’re the first people I’ve seen on the streets, so I came over to say hello.”

“It’s a quiet day, all right. But quiet’s good, yeah ?”

“Quiet’s the best.” She shows them a bright, true smile and crosses her arms behind her back. “We won’t be staying very long, though. We never do. We have to move around a _lot.”_

“Not here on holiday, then ?” Tan puts in, leaning over Randall’s shoulder. That in itself would be uncommon, but this is just ridiculous. Craggy Dale doesn’t get tourists. For the twenty years he’s lived here, the only new face has been that of the boy who fell into the river and was led ashore into his care. “Just passin’ through ?”

The girl shakes her head. “It’s work. My Daddy’s working, you see, and he takes me with him when school closes for a while. He thinks private tutors are a drag,” (she pauses to huff) “and fights with Mummy all the time over it. He and Mummy always fight. They had a –“

Divorce ? Randall winces. Tan sighs.

“ – a big argument, a shouty one, and all the neighbours were at their windows. Daddy told me it’s because Mummy got her picture in the Mail with someone from West-min-ster.”

This is way too much information. Randall fights a grimace with all he has. But like most children with separated parents, she’s just happy they’re listening, and hasn’t picked up on the sound of grinding teeth yet.

“Daddy does work out of town now. Sometimes I’m allowed to come along. This time we’re looking for someone ! There’s a man in a big city further in the desert who’s paying lots of people to look, but if we’re the ones who find the boy first, we’ll get most money !”

“Headhuntin’ ?” Tan further inquires, “You’re trackin’ down someone ‘round here ?”

Lizzy nods. “All around the big canyon and the ruins. That’s where we’re supposed to look. Daddy thought to follow the river, and he drove all day to get here first.”

“Sorry – around the _ruins_?” Randall cuts in. This is starting to sound familiar. The girl’s wide eyes suggest his tone is a little too urgent, a little too loud, so he swallows and tries again. “This boy you’re all looking for, Lizzy, is he missing ?”

“What m’boy means to ask, sweetheart,” Tan says softly, “is why you’re all after this little guy.”

“He fell,” she mumbles, and lowers her eyes. She’s closer to nine than eleven now, with her little hands wrung together, tugging at the back of her skirt. “He fell off the cliff, but he’s not dead. He’s somewhere, and someone is paying a lot of money to get him back.”

That does it – someone is looking for him. Randall gets back to his feet and brushes the sand off his knees. “I think we might be able to help ! Could you take us to your dad right now ?”

“Of course,” Lizzy says, frowning. “He’s parked by the river, close to the corn fields. He said they were corn fields, but they didn’t look like corn to me.” She shrugs, and offers an open palm to each of them. “Still, Daddy knows best. I’ll guide you !”

“Excellent.” He takes her hand, and to her left, Tan does the same. “I’m bettin’ I’ve got something useful to him. Oh, and hey, Liz – how big is your car ?”

“ _Big_ big,” she tells him, and she’s quite right, because it’s not a car after all – it’s a van. A huge one, at that, with enough room in the back to deliver a four-person sofa by the looks of it. It’s a deep blue that was probably shiny a very short while ago, before the sandstorms scratched and scratched at the paint and left rough spots around the wheels and headlights. Speaking of wheels, Randall’s never seen anything quite like them, and bends down to have a closer look at the deep groves running down the sides. Tan pats his back and offers a little of his expertise :

“Sand tires, m’boy. Without ‘em drivin’ here would have taken longer than just pushin’ the car.”

“That’s way cool,” Randall says.

There comes rustling from the other side of the vehicle, the unmistakeable sound of the corn fields growing agitated. It’s a noise that’s kept them up at night every autumn when the wind season came, but this time, the source of the disturbance is just a man, who steps around the front of his van and places a protective hand over its hood.

Both he and Tan open their mouths, but Lizzy beats them to it.

“Daddy !” she beams, and goes over to him. The man puts an arm around her shoulder and peers at them in turn.

“As much as I agree that my tires are great fun, I’d love to know what you’re doing poking at them. And why you came here with my daughter, while we’re at it.”

Big-city hostility. Typical. Tan tackles this one and offers a pleasant smile. “Hello. We hear you’ve just arrived in the Dale – on behalf o’ the rest of us, welcome !”

More staring. He’s prepared for it.

“My name’s Tannenbaum. Your little girl came over to greet me ‘n m’boy here, ‘n she told us a bit about your search expedition. We think we –“ He pauses to give Randall a confirming glance. “We think we might have useful information for you.”

Upon hearing this the man visibly deflates, the relief on his face quite apparent. He pats his daughter on the head and changes his frown into a somewhat apologetic smile. Now that he’s not glaring, he doesn’t seem like much of an intimidating chap – mid-forties, starting to bald on top, tiny glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He’s dressed more reasonably for the heat than his kid, with a short-sleeved shirt and open sandals. He offers a thin hand, which both of them shake in turn. He’s bitten most of his fingernails clean-off.

“Thank goodness. I apologise for my attitude – you just never know what kind of people you might find in small villages, and Lizzy tends to just run off with anyone.” He laughs nervously. “I’m Edward Brooks. Just call me Ed.”

They both say they will. Clearly, he’s the least uptight of Lizzy’s two parents.

“Frankly, this whole trip is a bit of a gamble,” he says, once the pleasantries are dealt with.

Randall gives an encouraging nod. “Lizzy said you were looking for a boy. Is that right ?”

“It certainly is, but it’s sort of like looking for needle in a haystack, isn’t it ? This boy, he’s been missing for five years. People have been going around and around the nearby villages, combing through the desert, hiking through the whole canyon, and _nothing_ has come up. Not even a scrap of clothing or hell, a bone.”

“Wait,” he says, trying to keep his tone even, “people have been looking for – for five years ?”

Two conflicting thoughts rise to the top of the pile. One, who’s this eager to find him ? And two, a little more pressing, and, perhaps, concerning : these search parties have been at it for this long and still not managed to locate him ? It’s ridiculous, he just fell below into the–

“… river that runs through the canyon,” Ed is telling Tan, looking mighty eager to open up on the subject. “But no one bothered to look into it. The river’s discovery is fairly recent, you see. It was located and mapped out by a young archaeologist on the rise, named Dennis Sycamore or close, when he wrote a paper on the area a year or so ago. Before this academic entry no one knew of its existence, and Sycamore explicated in the paper itself that its currents were much too violent to be escapable. A couple of people still looked, of course, the bounty’s _huge,_ but they found nothing. No ripped-up sleeves, no blood traces, no drenched backpacks, you name it. No body either, though, nowhere. This boy’s a mystery.”

A beat. Ed pushes his glasses up his nose.

“ _Desmond_ Sycamore,” he corrects himself, with a great whooping nod. “It’s Desmond.”

“About the missing boy,” Randall says as lightly as he can, “Have you got a description ?”

Ed shrugs. “Yes, of course, not that it helps. We all know it by heart, by now. Shortish ginger hair, average height and build. Pale complexion, although that’s liable to have changed if he stayed in the area, right ? At the time of his disappearance he wore glasses, but they weren’t even prescription ones. He’s estimated to be about twenty-two now. In other words, we have nothing to go on, other than the hair colour and a faded old picture of him as a child that Mister Ledore gave us. He could be anyone.”

“Anyone at all,” Randall nods. “My god, imagine the possibilities.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it ? The river lead was largely considered a dead-end after Sycamore’s paper, but I thought I might as well take my chances and drive down anyway. This village might be the only place in a fifty-mile radius that hasn’t been searched, believe it or not !”

“I’ll believe it,” Tan puts in a tad dryly.

“So you can help me, right ?” Ed’s scratching his stubbled cheek with a great deal of insistence, looking from one man to the other. “What’s the information you wanted me to have ?”

“You mentioned the name Ledore,” Randall says, his tone uncharacteristically brusque. He slaps the side of his head lightly : how had he not picked up on that ? “As in Henry Ledore, correct ? The founder of Monte D’Or ?”

“None other. You don’t know the story, do you ? The story of how Monte D’Or first started to come together.” A quick glance at his audience of two confirms their ignorance. He slides his glasses back up his nose, which is decidedly sweaty this evening, and clears his throat. Edward Brooks, it seems, isn’t immune to a touch of dramatics. “This Mister Ledore of ours, he was looking desperately for a friend of his – only at the time, no one called him mister anything, just Henry, because he was barely seventeen and looked sort of anaemic. I’m just going by what I’ve been told, here; I was still in London at that point in time. The friend, the boy we’re looking for, fell into a pit while exploring unsafe ruins with another of his social group.”

Social group, Randall nearly snorts, and has to contain himself for cover’s sake. They’d been a group of mates, getting hopelessly lost in forests and climbing up small rocky hills, and sometimes skipping a lesson or two to hang about town, doing everything to _escape_ the social groups his father nudged him towards time and time again. While they played cricket in this or that park, he and Hershel, Angela, Henry – even Alphonse on his good days ! – climbed up into each other’s bedrooms through the window and bruised their shins every weekend. Fucking social group. He covers his mouth with a hand and forces himself to listen.

“This other kid, the one who made it home, was so shattered he failed to mention the huge amount of treasure he’d found down there. Understandable, under the circumstances, of course, but it meant the heaps of gold were still there when the boy’s parents and Mister Ledore dug deep enough into the ground to find it – something wrong, sir ?”

“No,” Randall smiles behind his hand. He’d barely been aware of the noise he’d made. The noise someone who’d correctly located ancient treasure aged seventeen would make, perhaps. The noise of victory. “Just feeling very deeply vindicated.”

Tan leans over his shoulder in a way that’s supposed to be casual and fails at the task. “You fell off a _cliff,_ m’boy,” he whispers in his ear.

“Yes. Yes, I did. But _I was right !!!”_

“Well,” Ed continues, looking at him funny in an unsubtle sort of way, “Mister Ledore used that money to hire a ton of people, from any line of work, a real mismatch, with only one directive : get down there and look for his friend. The first year or so it was fairly dangerous, because most of the area wasn’t mapped and there was a huge gaping hole in the ground, but the prize money was such a massive sum that it attracted people like flies. The news even reached some fairly big London newspapers – I’m not saying it made the Daily Mirror, but there were a few lines in the Herald in some column or another. The information circulated, and got to me amongst many others. There were so many people swarming around the area that Mister Ledore thought to open a hotel, which just grew and grew and kept going. You should see it now ! It has towers, and I do mean _towers._ After that it was a free-for-all : hotel chains, casinos. I heard that the town hall have hired an architect to start drafting a structure for a huge hippodrome. Henry Ledore’s one of the most successful businessmen in England, but it was all purely an accident. He’s got a big town that built itself around him, but he still hasn’t found his friend.”

And that’s something, Randall thinks, that is going to change very soon.

Lizzy, who’d been sitting in the sandy grass behind the van, weaving a pretty crown of sunflowers, taps her father’s back with a finger. The man crouches to accept her gift, and Randall uses the few seconds of privacy to wipe his eyes. Nothing about Ed’s tale has made him particularly sad, but thinking about Henry frantically searching for him for five years, calling attention to his case at the top of his lungs in every way imaginable, it makes his head hurt. Shy Henry, quiet Henry, Henry who’s been on the front page of various newspapers for the past year. At the centre of a great commotion. In the media spotlight, at the heart of a throbbing new town, Henry who’d always preferred to leave the task of opening the front door to others. Briefly, he wonders how tiring it’s all been – then he stops, because his eyes are wet again.

Tan’s hand is on his shoulder, where it inevitably shows up when needed. It pulls him out of his deprecating torpor and back into the cool evening, in which he stands right next to a large car that’s most definitely got enough space for his crew. His fists unclench, and with a little coaxing so do his shoulders. The planned three-day wait before their departure has been drastically cut down, and he’s never been one to miss an opportunity, has he ? Not Randall; nor Boy.

He clears his throat. Ed and Lizzy look up at him, the man’s knee still in the sand. The flower crown is balancing on the top of his head, two sizes too small at least. Randall bites back a smile.

“So you’re counting on the boy having washed up here to collect the money, right ? That’s got to be quite the sum by now, what with Mister Ledore having a whole city to his name…”

Ed’s expression turns a little pained, like he’s got an idea what he’s going to say next.

“If we were to give you a hand,” he continues, “you wouldn’t mind doing us a little favour in exchange for that help, I suppose.”

“A little favour would be the least I could do,” Ed says, trying not to sound too relieved. “You can expect a big favour from me personally if this information of yours turns out correct.”

“And if you were to find him, say, in the next five minutes, what would you do ?”

Ed takes a moment to scratch the back of his head. “Well, I’m guessing I’d take a moment to congratulate myself over that improbable coincidence, and then get back to Monte D’Or pronto, driving several miles over the speed limit. But –”

“Fantastic,” the young man grins, and thrusts a hand forward. “Congratulations ! Randall Ascot, pleasure to meet you. Can we hitch a ride ?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Not too cramped, back there ?” Ed cranes his neck around his headrest to give the backseats a glance.

“You kiddin’ ? ‘ve never seen a car so fucking spacious before !”

“Vincent !” Clarence warns him. The milkman is struggling terribly with his seatbelt. “There’s a very young lady in the front seat. Watch yer mouth a little better, ‘ey ?”

But Lizzy, strapped up in the co-pilot seat next to her father, sounds delighted to hear the words ‘fucking’ and ‘spacious’ together, and giggles into her hands. Not an ounce of disapproval shows on Ed’s face – it’s been wearing an unchanging expression for the past half hour, wide-eyed and cheeks flushed, lips pulling back into a grin even as he speaks. He’s absolutely elated, so much that he doesn’t seem to mind the four men that have piled up into his car. Nothing can shake him now. Randall trusts he’ll drive as fast as he safely can – possibly faster.

“Feet off the seat, Vince,” he tells his friend, and gives his ankles a smack. “It’s like you were raised in a barn !”

“I _was_ raised in a barn, you nitwit– oh, pretty fuckin’ funny, Boy. I bet you think yer hilarious.”

“Of course I do.”

“Look, boys,” Tan says, laying a hand on Randall’s arm. It gets the young man’s attention. “We’re about to spend a couple o’ hours in a small space at the back o’ a movin’ car – what, four ? Five, Ed ?”

“Four and a half hours,” Ed states, and in a lower, smiling voice : “I’m about to make it four.”

“Right. Four hours confined. An’ when you’ve travelled, ‘n I ‘ave, you pick up on certain things. Like the need to lay down some ground rules so we can all make it to Monte D’Or sane, alright ?”

“No singing,” Randall quips immediately, looking straight at Vincent. “Absolutely no singing.”

Vincent looks back with eyes that fully, but affectionately, say fuck you.

“You sing ?” Clarence enquires against his better judgement. He scratches at the stubble on his chin. “Don’t look the sort. What is it, the Spice Girls ?”

“Up yours,” Vincent says coolly. “S’ the Sex Pistols.”

“Wouldn’ have thought, aye.”

“Okay, no singin’,” Tan nods. “May I suggest : no riddles. Or a limited amount o’ them. Let’s say… three.”

“Are you joking ?” Randall looks positively dismayed. He sits up like a man whose honour has been spat on. “There’s no better time ! They’ll keep us busy and thinkin’ and they’re the best way to pass the time !”

The old man gives a pained smile. “Yes, m’boy, but they do tend to get people _frustrated.”_

“Drive me nuts, they do,” Vince puts in.

Randall, who’s going through the five stages of grief, has reached bargaining. “What if I only ask the easy ones ?”

“Let’s just go with ol’ Tannebaum’s idea, ‘right ?” Clarence says. “No singin’. Three riddles. Anythin’ else ?”

“We’ll think on it.”

And as Ed takes their first turn onto the desert road, they do.

Outside the car, the sun is beginning to set over the dunes, covering the desert with a thin veil of gold. As the sky turns purple and the clouds scatter, the landscape turns into a picture book illustration, the perfect sunset on the horizon. None of the passengers are available to appreciate it.

“Theoretically,” Vincent says, “Could Eddy here still get the dosh if we threw you outta the movin’ car ? On the grounds of he did find you, just couldn’ stand you long enough to drive ye safely home. Then we’d split it ‘n never speak of you again.”

“It’s not even _difficult,_ ” Randall insists. Despite his seatbelt he’s managed to sit with his legs folded against his chest, and keeps drumming his fingers on top of his knee. He’s on his third riddle, and _clinging_ to it. “You carry it with you everywhere you go, but it doesn’t get heavy. What is it ?”

Vince actually whines. “You do keep askin’ that, but it ain’t becomin’ any clearer, mate !”

Randall’s only begun to open his mouth to retort when Vincent pre-emptively holds up two fingers to his face. Tan, fast asleep against the window, fails to defend his protégé’s honour, and snores on. The boys hiss at each other from opposite seats.

“Shut your gob, Vincent, I’m tryin’ ta think !” Clarence cuts in. He’s nearly folded his cap in half with the effort. “A… It’s gotta be summin’ simple, it always it. A brain ! Your brain !”

“Actually,” Lizzy says from the front seat, “My teacher, Ms Beauregard, told us that the brain tends to swell under certain circumstances, and can become heavier.”

“She says that, but science, brain science like that, it just ain’t verifiable, love ! You just hafta take her word for it. Who’s ta say ?”

“It’s not your brain,” Randall informs him, not without some twisted pleasure.

“For f– I mean, figurin’ these out is more difficult than it seems !”

“Want me to repeat the question ? You carry –“

“If ye ask me tha’ again I’ll open this door an’ just gently fall out the car,” Vincent says, sounding like he means it.

They fall into complacent silence. The car engine has been running for a good two hours now; this isn’t the first one, and isn’t any more awkward than the previous. Each of them retreat momentarily into their own little worlds, eyes losing focus, shoulders slackening. Randall is thinking of what lies ahead, a bustling city of lights and noise, with traffic and tourists and pavements and big lampposts, faintly wondering how it’ll all feel after five years in the middle of nowhere. Stimulating, he bets. It’s perfect – he can’t stand being bored. Vincent, slumped against the car door with his arms crossed strictly over his chest, legs folded and ankles locked, is no doubt imagining what snogging Paul Simonon would feel like, a thought his friend has no personal desire to explore. As for Clarence, god knows what’s going on in that head of his. Randall isn’t convinced he wants to share the privilege. For a few minutes, he settles on watching Tan’s chest rise and fall beside him. What does a man like Tan dream of ? With so much material to work with, the setting must be of Tolkienian proportions.

“Your name,” he tells them softly once he’s sure Vincent won’t reach out and throttle him.

“Clarence Andrew Wilson, that’s all of it. Andrew was me grandad’s name, and my m–“ The milkman stops himself mid-sentence and provides a small, polite cough. “Tha’ was the answer to the riddle, wasn’ it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Vincent snarls upon principle. “You don’t _carry_ your name, fuck, if anythin’ you _wear_ it, innit ?”

“Are you seriously tellin’ me you would have been happier if I’d said ‘you wear it everywhere you go’ ? You’d have found something else to winge about, Vince, all of the Dale knows you’re the sorest loser in the South of England.”

“Which is why yer banned from the annual chess tournament ‘round Maureen’s,” Clarence remarks. “She told me that on my first week – bloody good anecdote, though, can’t blame her !”

Randall muffles a cackle. “Now that was one memorable incident.”

“It _is_ a bloody good anecdote.” Vincent’s got his sloppy grin back on again, and gives his mate a wink. “If I ever need a resumé, that’ll be on it.”

“What’s the story ?” Lizzy asks, wrapping her little hand around her headrest.

“Maureen’s sort of known for blowin’ stuff out of proportions, but I reckon her tellin’ doesn’t fall that far from the mark this time round.” Clarence scratches the back of his head. “You might be a bit young for this one, love.”

The young girl looks mightily offended. “I’m old enough to hear about harsh things ! Ms Beauregard went over the Second World War with me as a pre-li-mi-na-ry.”

“Course you are, Liz,” Randall says, “ ‘cept Vincent puts the Blitzkrieg to shame.”

Tan gives a brusque snore of agreement, and that, they all think, is that, then.

Half an hour away from Monte D’Or, they stop for petrol and a chocolate bar.

While Ed’s stretching his poor legs, the Dale’s own travellers take a smoking break in front of the gas station’s remarkably small shop, sitting on a bench under the front lights. Well, three of them, anyway – Randall, in a futile attempt to avoid the smoke, is standing a few feet away, leaning against the wall. Every so often he gives Tan a dirty look, which so far the man has ignored with remarkable skill.

“This is more excitement than I’ve ‘ad in years,” Clarence says. He’s buttoned his jacket all the way up for once. The desert always gets colder when night falls, and night has well and truly fallen over the dunes. The sky is pitch black, save for a small spot of light in the near distance – their destination, so very close now they can practically tell its bright coloured beams apart from each other. Staring at the blur, they share a wistful sigh.

“Never been so far away from home before.” Vincent crushes the butt of his cigarette under his heel. “Definitely feels weirder than I thought. Man, my hands are fuckin’ shakin’.”

Such strong language is stored away for later use when they see Lizzy skip over to them, holding in her little arms what looks suspiciously like a twelve-pack of Snickers. She’s got one open, wrapper folded around the bar in her right hand, and is balancing the rest with plenty of care. The glee on her face does not diminish her manners.

“Look ! Daddy bought me all this chocolate !” She thrusts the pack forward, and they all crane their necks to agree that yes, he certainly has. “He never lets me have one more than once a week ! And he didn’t even complain about the price !”

Randall scans the car park for Ed, and finds him by the van, wringing his hands and quite possibly mumbling to himself. He’s not sure how much Henry’s promised everyone for his safe return, but he suspects one thing : it’s a lot.

Whether the man’s just come back to his senses or his joy has sharpened them, Ed looks up like his name’s been called and gives the group a wave. After three and a half hours of driving, anyone would be tired, but by God, not Edward Brooks. “Are you ready to leave ?”

“Yep,” Tan calls back. “Be right there !” He pauses to give his bench companions a glance. “We are, ain’t we ?”

“Not doin’ anythin’ here we can’t do in the car,” Clarence says wisely, and stands first.

They all shuffle back in, one by one, and go back to their seats. The old aches settle in the tough spots again, base of the spine and back of the legs, nape of the neck, god, don’t _you_ have a headache ? but it’s just for half an hour’s time, nothing, really, weighed against the wonders of the town ahead. They stifle their sighs and listen to the engine grumble and Ed tell Lizzy to tighten her seatbelt, love, and very softly, Vince starts to hum _Holidays in the Sun._

Monte D’Or !

The car doors slam behind them, and Vincent, eyes disbelievingly wide, gets to coin the group’s first impression of the City of Miracles :

“It’s like we’ve driven through a wall of noise.”

They’d driven into the city when the clock struck ten and heard the buzz of chatter immediately, like a switch had been flipped. Even the outskirts, where people sit on doorsteps and kicks empty cans around the pavements, are brightly illuminated with lampposts and fairy lights, hung up between the buildings. They’d all pressed their faces against the windows and watched light and life spread across the landscape, making the outer streets look dim. Ed had driven the car around a roundabout that circled a large plaza where spotlights and the most lively inhabitants converged. They saw little tents selling goods and one-stop food shops, and children with balloons and so many tourists ! It took them a good twenty minutes of circling around to find a parking space that fit the van, forcing them to admit : Monte D’Or may not be huge, but it is _packed._

And it is like a wall of noise, really, the passage between the quiet backseats where they’d all sort of been dozing, and the bricked lanes leading them through a labyrinth of streets that all went the same way, to the centre of the town. The six of them stand there for a moment, listening to the conversations popping up everywhere around them, the sound of faraway music, and then Ed presses a little button on his car keys and locks the van.

“We should find a payphone,” he says. His business is too important to allow him much time for wonder, and besides, he’s been here before. Lizzy, who dances around the colours blotches that decorate the paved way, seems equally unphased. “It’s a little late, but I’m sure Mister Ledore won’t mind being disturbed. Not with the news we’ve got for him !”

Randall manages to tear his eyes away from the brightly-lit square ahead with some difficulty. Someone down there is playing the violin, and people are singing along, tapping their feet to the rhythm. He opens his mouth to reply, and, with some surprise, feels himself hesitate. “Look, Ed…”

“You’d rather wait until morning,” the man hazards. His face is slightly flushed. “That’s fine by me ! Sorry, bit excited. We’ll all be spending the night here either way, and there are hotel rooms aplenty. I’ll show you the towers !”

“Actually, I was hoping for an extra favour.”

“That isn’t asking much, considering the circumstances,” Ed nods. “What is it ?”

“I’d like to go and find Henry by myself.” He might feel this in his bones, but it doesn’t make it any easier to articulate – there’s just something about showing up escorted to his friend’s doorstep that rings out of tune. “I’ll go first thing, I swear ! And I’m not trying to pull a swift one on you, Ed. I’ll make sure you get the money.”

To hear his motives stripped down bare makes the man turn a little redder. He fiddles with his glasses and gives him a series of cautious little nods. “I see no problem with that. Of course. None at all ! Lizzy and I had planned to stay a while in Monte D’Or no matter how things panned out in the desert. A few extra days added to our holidays aren’t something to complain about, are they, sweetheart ?”

The little girl spins around and around the closest lamppost, giggling her head off. It doesn’t sound like she has any objections.

“Careful, love, you’ll hit your head !” he calls out to her. He offers the group a nervous smile. “I suppose you’re all eager to explore the nightlife, but a word of advice here : we really ought to book some rooms first. This place is full of explorers and hired workforce, and more and more tourists each week. If we want to get into the Reunion Inn, we need to get a move on. It’s worth it, I promise.”

There’s a common nod of agreement. Tan scratches at his beard and ventures : “Do we need t’get back into the van ?”

“Oh, no, not at all ! I parked us nearby. It’s a five-minute walk at most.”

“Five minutes !” Lizzy moans, her first childish words of the day. She’s rubbing her eyes under the lamppost’s beam. “That’s a long walk, Daddy.”

“I’ll pick ye up, Liz !” Vincent tells her, and turns to wink at her father. The man shrugs his approval and lets the young man stroll over to Lizzy and get onto his knees. “A wee girlie like you can ride on me shoulders easily. Light as a feather, like.”

As she climbs on, the important decisions are being made by the rest of the grown-ups. The desert folk, all their riches combined, have exactly eighty-seven pounds and fifty p – this includes the twenty Vince’s hiding in the waistband of his jeans and all the change at the bottom of Clarence’s pockets. Ed, cooled-down but still on top of it, easily agrees to pay for their rooms, as long as they only get three. He would stay with Lizzy, of course, and as for them, well, they could make the decision en-route. Randall and Tan, who live together, don’t mind sharing, but Clarence and Vincent aren’t an ideal match. The bearded man and his protegee trail behind the group, letting Ed take the front, and discuss the conundrum.

“Clarence is sensitive,” Randall whispers. “He’s sure to get on Vince’s nerves by mentioning the divorce again, or by, say, sneezing –“

“Think Vincent will lamp him ?” Tan raises an eyebrow.

“Might not, but man, he isn’t the most tender or gentle person, you know what I mean ? He could just make a small comment, Clarence just doesn’t have enough self-confidence to throw it back, you know ?”

“That divorce crushed ‘im alright.” The group takes a sharp right past a brightly-lit street packed with shops and shoppers, onto a smaller alley leading them down the side of what, manifestly, is a canal. Tan and Randall give each other a look. “ ‘sides, Vincent might not be on top form himself, bein’ away from the Dale ‘n all that. He’d do with your company, m’boy.”

“Right. Boys night in,” Randall jokes. “And you Clarence can talk about Wales. For about three and a half minutes.”

Tan humours him with a smile. “I’ve been to Wales lots o’ times, lovely place. Mock all y’want, Cardiff is marvellous, especially during term. I was a student there for two years in m’twenties.”

“Didn’t know you’d studied,” the young man says. He considers this while they quicken their pace and fall back into the group. “What topic ?”

“History, actually. Those were the days.”

At the front of the small herd, Ed turns around and slows to a stop. He bars the way around the corner and showcases a large, enigmatic smile for them to look at instead. “Alright, friends. We’re almost there, but the view deserves a pre-emptive introduction.”

“What the fuck does pre-emptive mean ?” Vincent asks Clarence in a low voice. The milkman shrugs haplessly.

Undeterred, their guide remains beaming. “Ladies – well, lady – and gentlemen, may I present…”

“The Reunion Inn !” Lizzy cries out.

They turn the corner and let out a collection of gasps that makes the little girl laugh with glee. Clarence’s jaw is hanging so low it could be resting on top of his tie, and he seems unable to snap it back into place. Vincent’s reached out to grab Randall’s arm. And Tan, well, Tan’s just looking at the building, with wide and shining eyes, but he _gasped,_ too. And when the man who’s travelled the world gasps, there’s something to behold.

“Towers,” Randall tells the ceiling. He’s lying spread out on most of his bed, shoes still on. He runs the red sheets between his thumb and forefinger, recognising the feel of silk. He hasn’t encountered it in five years. “Not one tower. Not two towers. _Three towers._ ”

“Towers,” Vincent echoes. He’s crouching in front of the tiny fridge that’s lodge under the counter. “I really though Eddy was fucking with us, man. Towers. On a hotel. Want anythin’ ?”

“Toss us a can of orange juice, then.”

Named can flies dangerously close to his face. He picks it up off the pillow and cracks it open. “This place is posh as can be. Silk sheets ‘n grand oak everywhere. It’s clear Henry’s got money to pour into it.”

“Right.” Vince selects a small bottle of coke from the mini-fridge and drains it. “Rooms are bloody small, though.”

“What, were you expecting a suite ?” The room really isn’t that small, not for an expensive hotel. There’s plenty of room between their beds, and a fully-functional bathroom half its size adjoined. “I bet in ten or twelve years this place’ll have more towers, say eight, and it’ll be so elite they won’t allow people in without recommendation. Then you’ll have your massive suite. With a view overlooking the town and all.”

Vince stifles a burp. “How much you bettin’ ?”

“Thirty quid.”

“Jesus.” He makes to throw the empty bottle into the bin on the other side of the room, and decides against it. It ends up back inside the fridge. “Well, leaves us no choice, ‘ey ? In ten years we gotta book a room here again and see for ourselves.”

“Better start saving up,” Randall grins. He sits up against the headboard and works on untying his laces. “How are you coping, by the way ? Big town, this is.”

His friend offers a meek shrug that’s quite unlike him. “Fine. Just not used to bein’ in unfamiliar territory, right ? Never been anywhere I didn’t know down to the cracks in the pavement.” He pauses. “There’s also all the rich fucks.”

“Exploring is fun, though ! Lots of places to discover. Monte D’Or feels like it’s packed with surprises.”

“It better fucking be,” Vincent says conversationally. “I’m not spendin’ the night jerkin’ off to a documentary on sea turtles. I’m hittin’ the town, baby.”

Randall raises an eyebrow and watches him produce a twenty pound note from his jeans. Not the pocket, mind you – inside his jeans. Or so he hopes.

“The hotel rooms may be on Eddy, but the drinks are on me !”

“The –“ The young man feels his cheeks heat up and hopes in vain the colour isn’t too flagrant. He pushes his glasses up his nose, feeling foolish and prude and a little stuck up. He’d been brought up to turn down a drink and had done it dutifully, so dutifully that his abstinence had continued throughout his amnesia. The idea of breaking his mother’s rules now is uncomfortable _au possible._ He guesses there’s a part of upper-class boy he just can’t get away from. “Vince, I’m not spending my first night here with my head down a toilet !”

“Come on, Boy ! We’re both in our twenties ‘n we ain’t ever stumbled out of a bar blind-drunk ! We’re missin’ out, man, and this is ideal pub crawl territory !”

“First of all, alcohol is bad for your health,” Randall tells him, trying and failing not to sound defensive. “Second of all, the only person I’ve ever met who went on a pub crawl was Maurice back in Stansbury, he did it on his stag night, and he said it was proper awful by the end. Third of –“

“Shut yer gob and grab yer coat,” Vincent says curtly, and walks out the door.

Randall throws his pillow in his wake. “I only just took my fucking shoes off !”


	3. Chapter 3

“A moat !” Tan is exclaiming, with an air of utter delight. He and Clarence are sitting on one of the benches that lines the outer walls of the hotel, overlooking the canal. The morning sun has lit it right up, and each tremor in the water becomes a blinding spark. Randall makes his way towards them from the entrance. “The water acts effectiv’ly like a medieval moat that surrounds the structure. Never seen anythin’ modern like this outside of Venice !”

Clarence utters something that’s stuck midway between ‘aah’ and ‘hmm’. He doesn’t look very attentive, and even less interested. His hands are trembling in his lap. He lets them do their merry jiggle for a few more seconds before shoving them into his pockets to shake out of sight. When he spots Randall his face lights right up, making him look five years younger, and he hops to his feet to greet him. “If it ain’t our very own Boy !”

“Eager to get going, I see,” he smiles, and accepts the bear hug the milkman pulls him into. He’s never seen Clarence this enthusiastic.

Tan stands in turn and gives him a pat on the shoulder. “Eager indeed. Where’s Vincent ?”

“In our room, with the curtains drawn very very tightly and all the lights off.” He fights a grin. “He’s nursing his first hangover and it’s, well, pretty spectacular. I don’t think any of us will be seeing him today.”

Moderation ! he’d told Vincent last night, and the young man had barely listened, pulling him down the street by the sleeve of his jacket. They’d been offered free drinks at almost every bar when Vincent played the poor farmboy card, leading to Randall breaking his sacred rule and having the one (1) pint, which was fucking revolting, and the rest of the evening was spent in a haze of trying to hold his mate back. By two Vincent had been too pissed to walk straight, allowing Randall to take him wherever he wanted, and they’d spent some time exploring the town. There was a very nice portrait gallery on the central plaza, a tiny building fit with Greek columns that bore a great big sign announcing ‘PLANNED EXPANSION IN THE NEW YEAR’, which he intended to visit if he could spare the time. By then Vince had vomited in six different bins, a sign it was time to head home. All in all it had been a great night out. For Randall, anyway.

“We’re headin’ to the casino,” Clarence says, trying to control a compulsive smile. Even his voice is thick with excitement. “The big one, with all the neon lights. My God, I ain’t ever seen neon lights that big in me life.”

We ? Randall asks Tan with a glance. The old man shrugs. “I reckon someone better keep an eye on ol’ Clarence here.” He leans in and softly adds : “If only to make sure he still has money at the end of the day, aye ?”

“Ah,” the young man says, with emphasis.

The milkman’s fiddling with the zip on his jacket. “Tan – I mean, _we,_ obviously, wanted to wait ‘n greet you before we left ! Say good mornin’ !”

“An’ wish you luck,” Tan underlines. “Mostly wish you luck. You’ll be alright on yer own ?”

“Course !” It’s completely true – any tremors in his face or fingers are entirely down to excitement. He’s already fished Henry’s address out of the small phonebook available at check-in, and got a map off one of the staff. In other words, all set. “Look, I won’t keep you, I’ve got to run, too. Could one of you please check in on Vince around midday ?”

“Will do,” both men chorus. Clarence gives a brief wave and starts across the bridge without an extra moment’s though. He doesn’t look very interested in the medieval moats himself, just getting across. Tan lingers to give his boy’s shoulder a paternal squeeze, and follows the Welshman back into the city centre.

“I’ll see you later !” he calls after them.

Right. Now he’s on his own.

The map isn’t very helpful, and frankly, that’s something of note. This town and everyone involved in its organisation are clearly shitting money, but the budget isn’t going into the most essential places. The result is an incomprehensible diagram that leaves him completely baffled. He’s decrypted ancient maps based on lost languages in his teens, and he’s standing there in the sun unable to tell what his current position is.

This is complete bollocks, he thinks firmly, and starts down the bridge with the map rumpled in his back pocket.

He asks his way back to the big plaza at the centre of town by stopping every single passer-by who doesn’t have a bodyguard. Monte D’Or has developed into a small city, but kept its town mentality intact, and people are positively charming. It’s hard not to let himself get dragged into a conversation that, while deeply interesting, would take up most of his morning, and he has to turn down many unhappy inhabitants. A particular couple, two lovely ladies around his age, had insisted on taking him on a tour of the market that’s spread across downtown.

“It’s a lovely place, we promise,” one of them assured him, looking at her girlfriend for confirmation. “It’s lively every day of the week, too, not just the weekend. At this time of the year they have these little pink berries –“

“They’re to die for !” the second nodded, rosy-cheeked.

“You must try them before you leave town !”

He tells them while the offer’s very tempting, and both of them are very interesting people (the brunette is an apprentice journalist, and her partner a geology student just finishing off her degree), he really needs to run. There’s someone he needs to meet ! They’re very understanding, and provide him with the name of the area : the Gallery Plaza.

With this information at hand, he finally pinpoints his location on the map and traces his journey with the tip of his index. Just a few more turns, and he’ll be on Henry’s front doorstep. A new, uneasy feeling of fear grips him, but it’s irrational, isn’t it ? He’s being looked for. Surely there’s no wrong in showing up. The lovely and colourful Knick-Knack Alley takes his mind off his troubles, and he walks down the cobbled street a little less nervous. It’s exploding with energy, this one, little shops with outside tables at nearly every door number. A middle-aged man wearing a pink chef’s hat offers him a free taste of a pastry he’s never seen in his life, and he’s terribly sorry to decline. Once he’s found Henry he’ll go through town again and try every new thing he can find !

According to his directions, Henry’s house stands behind a low wall on the right side of Oasis Street. That much it does. Unfortunately, the tall gates in front of the estate are shut, and worse, there’s a huge van parked in front of them. A group of construction workers are taking a smoking break, leaning against the back of the vehicle. The most senior-looking one straightens up and taps his hat with his knuckles when he sees him coming. “Can I help you, sir ?”

“I hope so,” Randall sort of stammers, stopped in his tracks. “I, uh, need to see –“

The builder gives his colleagues an eye roll that says _here’s another one._ “Needed to see Mister Ledore, sir. Well, he ain’t here, that’s the problem, and we’ve been tellin’ people all week !”

“It’s beyond us why he won’t keep his associates informed, like,” one of the fellas puts in.

Pinned as an associate, he won’t get anything else out of these guys. He tries a different approach : “You’re tellin’ me. He never tells anyone anything, does he ?”

“Damn right,” builder number one says, and lifts his head at him. “You know ‘im personally ?”

“Yeah, I do. Childhood friend of his, see. I drove in from London to catch up with him – it’s his birthday in a couple of days, ‘n he never takes a break, so I figured, a familiar face goes a long way.”

This is a complete lie – Henry’s birthday is in four months – but the bloke looks impressed. “That’d be good for him, aye. He’s a great guy, you know, we all respect the work he does, but man, he really never stops. I mean, look at the state of his house !”

The man gestures at the house with a broad, gloved hand. It’s a nice place, about the size of the old Ascot mansion, with a lovely set of bricked stairs leading up to the doorstep. Compared to the rest of the scenery, it looks charming but very meek, and the scaffolding on the roof does nothing to help.

“We been beggin’ him to build a bigger house, right ? He can afford it and man, he deserves it. Everythin’ he’s earned he worked for. And at such a young age ! Really respectable fella, there aren’t many like that these days. But he just won’t allow himself the luxury. This place is three or four years old ‘n it was built in a right rush, so it’s leakin’ all over, creekin’ with the wind, like ! The roof collapsed in a week or so ago, fell right down into his office. He wasn’t hurt, mind you, but it could have been severe.”

That sounds so much like Henry that Randall has to suppress the warmth that spreads through his chest to maintain his character. He gives his head a shake and tuts. “Typical Henry. He hasn’t changed one bit.”

The chief builder shrugs helplessly. “Talk some sense into ‘im for us all, would ye ? All of Monte D’Or worries for the man. You can find him at the Reunion Inn, that’s where he’s workin’ from for now.”

He bites his tongue, hard. There’s a frown itching at his brow. All this walking and Henry had been in the same building as him the whole time ? He thanks the group of men for their help and their work, and turns back on his heals. Knick-Knack Alley is less amusing the second time round, especially in a rush such as his. His walk escalates from a brisk stroll to a half-jog as he crosses the plaza, keeping his head down.

At least, he thinks brightly, he knows the way back.

On the other side of town, Clarence feeds another token into the slot machine and pulls the shiny handle. Appear two pound signs and a cherry. He’s starting to get tired of seeing the cherries, and seriously asking himself why they chose that particular fruit. At the nearest poker table, bent over the green mats, Tan is playing a very good hand. Their luck will even out eventually.

“Do you have an appointment ?”

Randall stares at the man behind the desk with a mix of politeness and hatred. Those sound like antonyms, but he’s making it work.

“No, I don’t – look, I don’t need one. I’m a friend of his, and I really need to see him right away. My name is –“

“Sir,” the receptionist says tensely. His hair is a deep black, and oiled back against his skull. Randall kind of wants to rip it out just for the kick. The fuck looks like he deserves it. “It’s procedure. Henry Ledore is a very busy man, and people cannot simply request to see him at once, no matter who they are. You must understand that without this system our founder would have no time for work, nor his private life.”

“Just call him,” he finds himself whining. “Call him up, it’ll take about thirty seconds of his time, that’s alright, isn’t it ? Tell him that Randall Ascot wants to see him.” A pause, and reluctantly : “Please.”

“I can’t do that, sir. In fact I don’t have access to Mister Ledore’s personal number, and his work number is not to be called by anyone outside of his contractual circle. Now, I have an appointment with him available for the 12th at two thirty. Would that be acceptable ?”

Randall struggles for control over his tongue. “That’s –! That’s in three weeks ! I can’t wait here three weeks, I’m from out of town and a friend is paying for the rooms !”

“There’ll be no opportunity to meet Mister Ledore at an earlier date. Would you like me to write your name down for the 12th at two thirty ?”

“No. That’s fine, thank you,” he says, keeping the venom in his voice to a minimum. “Have a wonderful day.” He starts to walk away from the desk, and backtracks to knock on the polished wood : “What’s his room number ?”

“Have a nice day, sir,” the receptionist tells him without looking up.

And thus Finding Henry becomes Finding Henry, Day One. No one immediately involved is chuffed about this, least of all Ed, who he bumps into while on his way back to the hotel lobby from his room. He gives the man a merry wave and tries to play it cool.

“I was just checking on Vincent,” he says as a manner of greeting. “He called me a daft fuck, but I think his headache is a bit better than this morning ! He’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

“Wonderful,” Ed nods, doing a very good impression of someone who cares. Randall is impressed. “Have you had the opportunity to speak to Mister Ledore yet ?”

The young man tenses up, fighting a grimace. “The receptionist turned me away. Apparently, I need an appointment.” And, in a manner of deflection : “…How’s Lizzy ?”

Ed doesn’t fall for the bait, nor does he grow frustrated. Instead he removes his glasses and rubs them with the hem of his shirt, squinting up at Randall. “Look, if they’re playing the administrative card, you really ought to use me as your pass in. I’m not saying this for a selfish point of view, Mister Ascot –“

“Randall,” he says automatically. “Mister Ascot was my father.”

“Well, Randall, if I’m honest here, they really might make you wait. The organisation here is as stiff as a… a –“ He flails a hand over his head, abandoning the metaphor. “When’s the earliest appointment they offered you ?”

“In three weeks time.”

“If you’re not planning on getting in through me, you ought to have taken it.”

This statement doesn’t make Randall’s mood any brighter, and he walks away more determined to find a way around this than ever. He needs a new angle, a new strategy, a plan. With this in mind he makes his way back into the lobby, grabs a newspaper at random from the available display, and sits himself down. It’s time for some trademark scheming.

It’s six in the evening when Tan and Clarence trudge back into the hotel’s entrance. The rain had greeted them at the casino’s front doors and followed them all the way back. Two anxious members of staff had barred their way and insisted they please make sure they’ve dried their feet as thoroughly as possible on the mat before coming in. And as they went through the motions and dragged bristles under sole, Tan had spotted Randall.

The kid’s sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, perched on top of an expensive-looking leather stool by the entrance. Most of his face is obstructed by the enormous newspaper he’s got open in his lap. Looking more closely Tan finds he’s even been brought a cup of tea. It’s half-drained, and still steaming. With the fussy staff gone, he makes a beeline straight towards him, expecting some sort of news, or at the very least, an explanation !

“I’m dying for a Jaffa cake,” is what Randall greets him with instead.

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” he says, and shelves that particular matter for later consideration. “What exactly are ye doin’ down ‘ere, m’boy ?”

“Well,” Randall smirks, “It’s all actually rather clever.”

His boy tells him that the reception staff aren’t letting him see his friend, on account of he has no appointment, which is a) ridiculous and b) unfair, and so he has set upon a new track. He lays the newspaper flat atop of the table and points to a particular photograph.

“This here is Henry’s personal assistant. He has direct access to him at any time of day, right ? So what I need to do is talk to him. The reception won’t call _him,_ either, and I think they’re convinced I’m some sort of stalker now, so I have no choice but to wait.”

“Of course,” Tan nods, before reconsidering. “Wait – you’ve been waitin’ for this fella all day ?”

“That makes it sound like I’ve been wasting my time !” Randall gives him a reproachful glance. “No, no. Only, say, three quarters of it.”

This master plan of his is very much classic, by his standards, and Tan can’t help but smile. He asks him if he’d like some company in his spying, but the young man gives a grand shake of the head, sending ginger curls flying.

“I need to concentrate to my full capacity,” he states very seriously.

“Meet ye for dinner later then, Mister Bond.”

By the staircase he pauses to throw a last look at him. The boy’s gone back to peering at the crowd from behind his newspaper. Tan chuckles heartily and starts up the stairs, just narrowly missing seeing Randall launch off his stool with a great big scramble.

There he is ! Oh man, there he is, walking right in, flashing some sort of card at security. Randall folds the newspaper and drops it onto the table without a care in the world. He has bigger fish to fry, or, in this case, grill. He slips into the crowd and pushes past several fat ladies just in time to catch the man pressing a button on the lift. Twelfth floor. Very interesting.

Briefly it occurs to him he could just follow him from a safe distance, but by then the bloke’s noticed him and is staring questioningly in his direction. Running a hand through his hair, Randall approaches with a sleezy smile.

“Hello,” he says. Very smooth, so far.

“Hello,” the man says back. This is going marvellously ! “Can I help you ?”

“Actually, I think you might be able to. You’re Mister Ledore’s PA, correct ?”

The man, who’s dressed like every PA since the job was invented, offers a very administrative nod. “Indeed I am. Am I to understand that you have business with him ? He’s terribly busy, I’m afraid, and currently unavailable. Appointments can be booked at the front desk until Mister Ledore’s office is restored.”

“Yes, of course. I have an appointment with him set in a couple of days,” he lies, eyes bright and friendly. “I was just hoping that you might cut the wait a little. Our meeting is actually very urgent !”

The man’s looking at him long and hard, and he’s barely sweating at all. Thank goodness for years of practice ! Fibbing had been the principal quality he’d had to develop during his teenage years. Living with a man like Baron Ascot had demanded it. Today it’s worked again, he’s got the man’s attention, and he’s frowning at him like there’s something on the tip of his tongue.

“Is that so ? I beg your pardon, but you look very familiar. May I have your name ?”

“Yes, of course,” he says calmly, inwardly imploding. This is it, the hit or miss. “I’m Randall Ascot.”

There’s a great big shining look of revelation that spreads across the man’s face. His eyebrows shoot right up above wide eyes. He knows, of course he would – as Henry’s PA, he no doubt coordinates part of the search. The relief that floods Randall is sweet and welcome.

And very short-lived. The man’s face dims back to its normal blankness, and all that’s left of his discovery is a hand scratching his chin. He dares show a timid smile.

“I do apologise. The name is terribly familiar as well, but I simply can’t place it. You say you have an upcoming appointment of importance, correct ? I could show you upstairs.”

“Yes,” Randall pushes, feeling desperate. “Yes, yes, yes. Very important.”

But the man’s brow darkens. “I ought to check the books first. Would you wait here ? I won’t be a moment.”

No. No no no ! He’s so close ! “It would be quicker if I came up with you, wouldn’t it ?”

“Of course,” the man laughs politely, “But security forbids it, I’m afraid. You can take a seat right here, and I’ll be back to escort you up in five minutes at most.”

“Fantastic,” Randall mutters. Seat in question is familiar to him, to say the least. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank _you_ for your understanding, sir,” the PA smiles, and steps into the lift.

As soon as the doors close, Randall bolts.

“Dinner,” he announces loudly, pushing the door to their room wide open. The light from the hallway pour in, making him an easy target. A pillow hits him straight in the face. It muffles his laugh only partly.

“Twat,” Vincent grunts. The poor guy’s managed to sit up partially, and he’s cringing in the light. “Throw me a paracetamol, would ye ?”

Randall does as he’s told, and misses by a mile. With a dozen curses simultaneously in his mouth Vincent drags himself out of bed and fetches it from under the nightstand. He swallows it dry, gags, and goes for the bottle of water on the counter.

“Did ye find yer man ?” he asks, once he’s done swallowing. He wipes a droplet of water off his bottom lip and nods inquiry Randall’s way. Clearly the gesture was miscalculated, because it’s followed by a groan and a few more expletives.

“Unfortunately, no.” Randall’s too amused by his state to be very sad about it. He helps Vince spin the bottle top back on and sticks it in the fridge for him. He watches him struggle his way into a jumper from on top of his bed, and tells him : “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Better luck then,” Vince says. He’s managed to buckle his belt, and, looking proud, goes : “You mentioned dinner, right ?”

“Good morning !” Randall says brightly. If he’s aware of how much his tone clashes with his appearance, he’s very good at hiding it.

He pulls up a chair with all the appropriate dragging and creaking. Craggy Dale’s own delegation has populated a small table in the hotel’s restaurant, and have their faces buried deep in the leather menus on display. They’ve been joined by Ed and Lizzy for a cheeky overpriced breakfast, which everyone is very excited about, especially since they’re not the ones paying. The little girl’s sitting with her feet on the space seat, and swings them off to give Randall some room. He sits, and immediately presses his forehead against the table.

“You look dreadful, m’boy,” Tan puts to him as gently as possible. What little of his eyes can be seen under all that greying hair shows much concern. “Have you slept at all ?”

Vincent closes his menu with a clap and lets it drop onto the tablecloth. “As if. Look at ‘im ! Spent the night patrollin’ the twelfth floor, didn’t ‘e ? What time did ye come back in ?”

“Half-past four,” he mutters, somehow sounding upbeat.

“Half-past four,” Tan repeats. He pauses a moment, looking from his boy sprawled across his cutlery set to the menu, and adds : “I’ll order ye a coffee, shall I.”

Randall responds with a warped noise that none of them can make out.

“You should ‘ave a nap a bit later,” Clarence suggests. Eyes glimmering over the expensive glasses that have been set on their table, he’s as full of inspiration as ever. “Those help, y’know. Used to ‘ave them nearly every afternoon when I was a postman back home, man, they put me right back on me feet. Even when I was knackered beyond belief ! They ‘ave new ones now, power naps, they call ‘em.”

Lizzy gives a little tut. “No one can invent naps, they just exist !”

“Well someone had to name them, innit ? Power naps, micro naps –“

“Might fall asleep meself if ye keep this topic up fer long,” Vince says dryly, and thus puts an end to the debate.

Randall’s sort of sat up, and propped up his chin on the palm of his hand. He can almost feel the dark rings under his eyes, and reaches up to rub at them distractedly. “Not sure what I was hoping for, really. I’ve managed to exclude about twenty rooms, but there are fifty-five on that floor ! I can’t just stand by the lifts for twelve hours, someone’s gonna call security on me.”

“Again,” his friend puts in.

“Sod off, Vince.”

A young woman dressed in a superbly smart suit comes and takes their order of three full breakfasts, five black coffees, hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin. Her name is Mary, and she says the kitchen’s a bit busy, so the food might take a while. They all abide to the ancient English tradition of apologetic smiling and assuring her it’s all quite alright, no problem, they’re not all that hungry (they are), and they’re not in a rush anyway (which, in fact, is true). She turns away with the flash of a smile and leaves them twiddling their thumbs. Within five minutes she’s back with the drinks, giving them something to do. The group stir their coffees in silence. Lizzy tries not to slurp her whipped cream too loudly.

Ed clears his throat as discreetly as possible and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Randall, but things aren’t going ideally, are they ? We’ve been here for a week, and no more closer to a meeting with Mister Ledore. Let’s face it, the current plan isn’t unfolding all that well.”

“You can say that twice, man,” Vincent nods, and nudges his friend, who’s showing signs of snoring.

“Untrue,” Randall maintains, shaken awake. He blinks excessively before he can put another word in. Recalibrating, his companions guess. “It’s just taking a bit more time that originally estimated ! The thing with plans is that they’re not fixed in time, they’re liable to change and development –“

Vincent reels. “Spare us the crap !”

“I haven’t found the right way in yet, but I will. I’ll think of something else –”

“Look, mate, this ain’t workin’ at all. Ye’ve tried the front desk, ye’ve tried to talk to his guys, ye’ve tried to phone in –“

“After havin’ to steal the bloody number,” Clarence recalls.

“Right on ! Waitin’ for ‘im out front’s yielded nothin’. Tryin’ to guess what room he’s in is just desperate. Next thing, you’re gonna be knockin’ on every door on his floor and apologisin’ to every unfortunate rich fuck you bother.”

“I just think,” Ed says, a little more confidently, “that it’s time to use me as your pass. If I go to the desk I’ll get an immediate meeting, guaranteed. We’ll go up together, I’ll drop you off on his doorstep and be out of your hair.”

He’s being ganged up on, Randall realises, and opens his mouth to protest, but Tan’s hand on his shoulder cuts him off. The old man gives him a patient smile and a very small, very certain nod.

“I reckon it’s the right thing to do, m’boy.”

“This is fucking unfair,” he retorts heatedly, but figures, they’re all right. He’s gotten pulled too deep into his own eternal stubbornness again, determined to do things on his own, and for what ? He’s sitting at a table in the sun, surrounded by friends trying (bless ‘em) to help – it’s early in the morning and the breeze sneaking in through the window is gentle. There’s nothing to get angry about. The lack of sleep has been driving him up the wall, and he’s got to let himself unwind. He breathes out a long sigh, and well, his head feels lighter already.

“You alright ?” Tan inquires. His hand hasn’t moved, he’s no doubt felt Randall’s shoulders relax.

“I’m fine,” he says, and it’s true. “You’re – and I’m only gonna say this _once_ – probably right.”

Vincent actually hoots. “That’s somethin’ I ain’t heard ye say too many times, Boy !”

“You can all forget I said it now.” He grins at them in turn, and nods at Ed. “Except you. You’ve got to get me to reception.”

The man breathes a sigh of relief so heavy he nearly falters.

“Fact is, I’ve been so focused on figuring this all out that I’ve gone and forgotten why I’m here. ‘S not fair to make Henry wait, and frankly, I’m fed up with waiting too. First thing after breakfast, we’ll go.” He gives Ed a glance. “If that’s alright with you.”

Randall has had to admit he was wrong to get to reception. This was already something of a rarity when he was younger, which led his friends to carry a little notebook in which the date of such an occurrence could be recorded. As it turns out, they’d never gotten further than the second page. Partly because Hershel’s handwriting was fucking minuscule. And partly because he rarely came out with it without ulterior motive, leading to the date being omitted.

If you think he’s gotten more mature over the past five years, and learned to reflect on morality, philosophy, the true nature of true and false, and come out of this process acknowledging the necessity of making mistakes,

You’re wrong.

Underestimated him, have you ? Today is no different. He’s not letting this go without taking something back. He’s standing in front of the desk knowing he was wrong, and in return, he gets to savour the unequalled joy of being very, very right.

“I’m so sorry,” the receptionist whimpers, assaulting his keyboard with frenetic fury. “So very sorry. A mistake, you see. Mr Brooks, thank you for coming to us !”

“It hasn’t caused me any trouble,” Ed assures him, trying his best to be helpful.

Upon realising Randall has yet to speak, the man’s lips drag downwards in a poor grimace. “Mr Ascot, may the entire staff of the Reunion Inn extend our deepest apologies for the delay you’ve been put through… We’ll get you to Mister Ledore immediately, sir.”

“Thank you,” Randall says.

“I’m just verifying your contract, Mr Brooks, sir,” the man explains, typing with borderline panic. He makes three consecutive clicks so quick only one resounds. “Yes, it’s all there. Oh dear.”

Randall catches him glancing at him in between hitting enter and resuming typing at least twice. Whether he’s remembering the time he’d gotten the young man thrown out on account of ‘suspicious activity’ or when he’d threatened to hit him with his phonebook is irrelevant. What’s important is that he’s got his hand on the phone, and he’s calling Henry at last. Oh, and his perfectly oiled hair has finally flopped out of place.

“I knew I recognised your name, you know,” he tells him in a desperate attempt to clear himself. “The connection just wasn’t made with Mister Ledore’s dearest friend. I’m so very glad you’ve been found, sir. May I offer my deepest congratulations for your upcoming reunion.”

Said reunion could have taken place a week ago if this twat hadn’t been so far up his own – oh, the phone’s ringing ! Randall finds himself leaning in to listen to the beeps coming from the other end. There’s a click, and a man’s voice. The receptionist listens and nods at intervals, his shoulders shaking. He says a few words, repeats Randall’s name a good three times (what’s wrong with his name, anyway ? what makes it so hard to remember ?), and actually whines into the phone. There’s another click. He drops the receiver and turns to the pair with watery eyes.

“Sirs…”

“Is there a problem ?” Ed presses. His glasses have slipped down his nose again. “Look, I’ve waited a week for this. I’d appreciate an explanation.”

“Yes, sir,” the man squeaks. “It’s just that Mister Ledore is out, sir. He’s currently meeting Monsieur Alphonse Dalston about a trade agreement of the utmost importance to Monte D’Or’s, development, a– and it’s unknown when he’ll be back. You must try to understand that Mister Ledore is an incredibly busy man, carrying the bu–“

He continues coaxing out explanation upon explanation, and starts going on about construction laws in Southern Britain, but Randall’s tuned him out. Alphonse Dalston ! Of course the man didn’t stay in Stansbury, he’d always had bigger plans, but to find him here, in a meeting with Henry, no less ! The two of them had never been on the best of terms. He’s dying to know what their talks are like, now that Henry’s so influential. Man, Alphonse. He wonders if the two of them could meet again, and how it would all go down. Alphonse had loved to act tough, but he carried his heart on his sleeve for better or for worse. The man would probably tease him, wouldn’t he – so you’re a farmer, Ascot ? T’is so. He’s no archaeologist, but if one of them’s accomplished something big, that’s enough for him. Besides, there’s still time…

“…so I’ll have to ask you to come back after lunch,” the receptionist finishes, his voice nearly a whisper. “My most profound apologies. The hotel will pay all your charges for today and the rest of the week you’ve spent here, of course. If you give me your room number, I shall give you a call as soon as Mister Ledore returns.”

Ed scrawls down all three sets of numbers on a small post-it note, while Randall pretends with much energy not to notice the man’s pleading eyes on him. This time it really isn’t the poor bloke’s fault, he’s not being obstructive – it’s just more bad timing, at the end of a week that has been full of it.

“Thanks man,” Randall tells him as he turns away. Ed’s already halfway to the stairs, fingers trembling by his sides, looking almost as excited as he had in Craggy Dale. He’s taking huge comical steps on jittery legs, a bit reminiscent of a clown on stilts. Randall’s personal excitement has decided to manifest itself as intense sweating, which is a lot less funny. He jogs up to his level and follows him up the stairs, faintly aware that he’s stamping with some frustration. His nerves feel like they’re on fire, and will be until the phone in their room rings. He makes a mental note to warn Vince that a prank call will elicit merciless revenge, and starts making a list of possibilities.

He’s still plotting vengeance and payback with glee when he walks right into Ed’s back on the third-floor landing and nearly trips down the stairs. He grips the handrail and manages, barely, to avoid breaking his neck.

“What’s up ?” he asks the man, popping his head over his shoulder. There’s nothing in front of him, but that’s not where Ed’s looking, is it ?

“Oh my god,” Ed goes, with the casual wonder of someone who’s spotted a cat on the street. Staring like a madman into the crowded lobby below, he grabs Randall’s arm, and says it again, softer. Two red blotches have flared up on his cheeks. “Randall, there he is !”

A little slower than usual today, the young man steps around him and peers into the ground floor. It’s a mass of faceless bodies at this time of the day, between people checking out and nobles with a title asking for a restaurant booking. Finding nothing of note other than a fantastically red man breaking a wineglass over the bar counter, Randall thinks it’s safe to assume the rest of their group has gone down to join them, and Ed’s referring to one of them. “You mean Tan ?” he hazards, looking doubtful.

“No I don’t !!!” Ed hisses in his ear. His eyes are as round as marbles. He digs his nails into Randall’s forearm and points at the doors. “ _Look !”_

Uttering a half-assed ‘ouch,’ the young man does as he’s told. Light is spilling in from the glass doors, blinding and unpleasant to his retina, that replies by pulsating painfully. He squints as hard as he can, and is rewarded in his effort when he makes out two figures standing right there on the entrance carpet. They’re black shadows, clear cut against the strong backlight but impossible to make out. He’s about to suggest this to Ed, whose entire face has gone very red and very sweaty, when one of the figures steps further into the lobby, and out of the light.

“Oh my god,” Randall says in turn, and suddenly, he’s clinging at Ed right back. “It’s him !”

Five years have hardly changed Henry, and yet he’s almost unrecognisable. The newspaper picture that’s still tucked in Randall’s jeans pocket doesn’t do him justice in the slightest, he finds, and the thought is disconcerting, because he’d looked so familiar in it. From the distance Randall can still make out everything that had made Henry who he was, from his neatly cut hair to his suit, immaculate from collar to hem. Always the perfectionist. He doesn’t look all that different, standing there quietly with his arms by his sides, does he ? The only mark that time has left on him is the blond stubble that peppers his jawline, and those dark rings he’s carrying beneath the eyes. But something’s changed. It’s in his posture, or in the kind but affirming smile he gives his aide, the way he leans to the side to tell the man something in confidence. The crowd has parted around him naturally. Randall understands why – he can feel it, even two floors above. Henry has become much stronger, and it’s something tangible that he carries with him.

His throat feels dry and his tongue so heavy. Everything he’s been rehearsing for the past week has deserted him. To him it feels like only yesterday they were together in Stansbury, sitting on the floor of his room, backs bent, hard at work decrypting and sorting and taping together, trying to make sense of a language long gone. His memories, carefully preserved for half a decade, are still vivid. He could just stroll down there and greet him like he had every evening after school, and upon returning from every expedition, but Henry’s been waiting for a long time. He deserves something meaningful, but Randall’s always been terrible at that, always, always, and five years of farming haven’t made him any more lyric. His hands are slippery over the marble handrail. If he opens his mouth, he’ll splutter. He’s in quite the predicament, at the worst of times.

Downstairs Henry’s aide offers him a slip of paper, which the man takes the time to read, and after a brief exchange, the pair take a step forward towards the lifts. The sudden movement kicks Randall right out of his daydream, where time is frozen and he has all the time in the world to choose his words : this isn’t it, and Henry’s _leaving !_ It took a week to finally spot him, a week of spying and waiting outside closed doors. He can’t let him leave that easily. There might not be another opportunity to talk to him for hours, if not days ! This is no time to intellectualise. He has to follow his instincts.

And so Randall does the unthinkable : he leans over the handrail and shouts out at the top of his lungs.

“HENRY !”

The lobby freezes. Fifty pairs of eyes are on him, fifty mouths hanging open. One of the baggage handlers drops a heavy suitcase that crashes onto the floor. He’s got their attention now, all of them, including the young man in the dark blue suit, standing still in front of the doors. His eyes are wide, so wide they could roll out of his head, but every part of him is reverently tense. Very slowly, he lifts a hand to his mouth and lets out a disbelieving breath. They look at each other, two floors apart, and he drops his hand. It swings by his side. And then, in a gentle whisper, more of a question than a claim, he says :

“Master Randall…”


	4. Chapter 4

It would be beautifully poetic to say that the first thing Randall notices in the wake of Henry’s words are his eyes widening, glimmering with hope in the sunlight, or, hey ! his lips parting, or something similarly sweet. As it turns out, what catches his eye immediately is Henry’s aide gasping, making a contorted face that says, loud and clear, “ _Ah. Shit.”_ The man’s grasp on the folders he’s clutching to his chest slackens, causing the documents to slip free and spill onto the floor. He casts a furtive glance around him, but Henry hasn’t even flinched. He’s too busy staring right at the young man nearly folded over the handrail on the second floor, face flushed with urgency. The sight has swallowed him entirely and cut him off from the world. No sound can break him out of this state, not now, not when the man he’s been looking for all over England has come right to him at last.

Five years have transfigured Randall, but he hasn’t really changed at all. Henry, you might say, that’s because you’d recognise him anywhere. And he would, but only because it’s so easy, because Randall always has every aspect of his being on display at all times, both prideful and unable to do otherwise. He’s boisterous and unrestrained no matter the situation. It’s there in his eyes, that boundless impulse to take initiative no matter how absurd, and Henry watches him start to run down the stairs with the ghost of a smile. He trips, once or twice, or maybe three times, catching himself every time, but never slowing down. The past years have been kind to him and left him sun-kissed, broad-shouldered and glowing. His hair, freed from any attempt to style it, curls wildly around his face. He looks so different, and so full of _life,_ but there’s no mistake : it’s the same boy, who’d gone on the trip of a lifetime and never returned, that comes fast at him across the lobby and in one felt swoop takes him into his arms.

It’s quite a lot to deal with, all within ninety seconds.

It’s alright, thought. Randall is doing all the reacting for him right now, laughing heartily into his shoulder. All Henry has to do is stand in his tight hold and, cautiously, almost unsure of himself, return the hug. Randall’s back is warm beneath his palms, and if he presses down hard enough, he can feel his heartbeat. His own heart hammering mercilessly in his chest, Henry has to accept the reality of the matter.

“You’re alive,” he hears himself whisper. Speaking the words has kicked the process of realisation into motion, and he feels his eyes sting.

“I most certainly am !” Randall grins, somehow squeezing him tighter. “And I came to tell you ! The real question is, how did _you_ know ?”

A lot of words swell up and fight to make it out of Henry’s mouth. In the end only seven make it out : “I only hoped with all my heart.”

And that, he thinks, sums it all up.

While leading him up the stairs, Henry comes to terms with another key fact : believing someone did not die is not the same as believing they’re alive. The distinction is minuscule on a semantic level, but big enough, plainly, to throw him completely off-balance.

It is a true statement that Henry had planned to keep looking for Randall for the rest of his life. Irrefutable, in fact. Had the young man himself not showed up on his doorstep, he would have continued, relentlessly, to send search party after search party until the entirety of Great Britain had been scoured for signs of him, if not most of Western Europe. There are hundreds of reasons for this, and he’s gone over them with enough people over the last five years to refuse to rehash them now. In the immediate aftermath of his disappearance it had been easy to explain them. These days, not so much. In the midst of one heated argument Angela had slapped him and accused him tearfully of depriving her of grieving. This had taken place just a year ago, when hopes stopped weaking and started dying out entirely. That night he’d agreed with her, because what she’d said as fundamentally true : he, too, by refusing to admit the possibility of his friend’s death, was trying to spare himself the pain of grief. But that was only part of it, the denial – there was always that outlandish little possibility, that he nursed over the years until it swelled into a city : what if there was no need to grieve after all ?

He isn’t simple enough a man to believe that Angela had given up. Things aren’t black and white, feelings least of all. Whenever they argued there was an edge to her voice that begged for contradiction and logical, implacable reassurance. If he’s alive, she’d asked him, why hasn’t he come home to us ? And he’d told her, he will, it’s just taking him a while, but he’ll come back any day now.

Henry glances to his right, where Randall’s peering into the lobby as they make their way up, and feels a flush of relief. He had come home, just a little late. But wasn’t it just like him to keep his company waiting ?

On the second floor they run into a bespectacled man, fiddling with his lenses. He thinks he recognises his face from somewhere, perhaps a photograph in a file or another. In any case, the man certainly recognises him, and more surprisingly, Randall. The pair of them share a smile and a couple of words he can’t make out before the younger of the two turns to Henry and gestures at the other.

“This is Ed Brooks,” Randall informs him. “He was my ride here !”

Ed Brooks, who in a mutter puts in that his full name is Edward, offers a thin hand for him to shake. Henry does so, and tightly.

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr Brooks,” he says, meaning it more than he lets on. His head still feels far too light, like he’s wandering inside a hazy dream. Expressing himself clearly isn’t easy. “If there’s anything I can do to repay this favour that you’ve done the both of us, I’ll be eager to. Believe me.”

Mr Brooks scratches the back of his head. “Actually, I’m contractually affiliated to you, sir. Independent member of the search party for Ra–“ He catches himself and corrects the familiarity. Henry gets the idea that he and Randall are on friendly terms. “I mean, Mister Ascot here, of course. Been here a week trying to get to you to tell you we’d found him.”

Ed’s face had been familiar from a file after all ! Henry is certain he’s got a small-sized ID photo of him in his office, along with a couple hundred others. He who is usually skilled with faces has missed this one entirely. “I thought I recognised you. You’ll have to forgive me for the delay. Of course, you’ll be compensated fully, but I beg your pardon – a week ?”

“It’s my fault !” Randall steps in, sparing Ed a lot of sweating. “I wanted to get to you without Ed’s help – didn’t want you to think that I’d needed dragging here. I’ve only just remembered –“

He catches himself quite suddenly and clamps his mouth shut. Henry hardly notices, too taken aback by the realisation that Master Randall, of all people, has picked up an _accent_. He tries to get himself together in time to hear him continue, but he’s still only half listening to his words. That he should sound so rural is both shocking and, should he be frank, quite amusing.

“Uh, anyway, administration was a nightmare and I kept missing you, so Ed took me to the front desk after all. Without him I’d probably still be spying in the lobby.” He breaks into a smile. “I really wish that was a metaphor.”

Henry tries to tell him that it’s so like him it’s not at all surprising, but it won’t come out. He feels like he’s been thrust five years into the part. His brain is having just a touch of trouble adjusting. He manages to turn back to Ed and offer him an appointment so that he may get his pay.

Ed makes a face he doesn’t quite manage to conceal.

“Say, tomorrow,” Henry offers kindly.

Ah, that’s better. The man’s shoulders relax, and he shakes Henry’s hand again, with what can only be qualified as bone-breaking enthusiasm. To Randall he offers a grin and a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll go back to our floor and tell the others,” he says to the young man, and gives Henry an acknowledging nod. “Wishing you both a pleasant day.”

They watch him retreat, taking the velvet stairs up to the next level so hurriedly he takes the steps three at a time. Henry stands there staring his way long after he’s vanished into the corridor above, feeling altogether overwhelmed. He’s having trouble keeping one train of thought, and preventing the tracks from splitting a dozen ways. This isn’t the way he’d imagined their reunion, and god knows he’s imagined it, hundreds of times, during the day and night alike, during every free moment at his disposal (which was, regrettably, a lessening amount). In every scenario he would be bursting with joy, and although the warm feeling has nestled in his gut, it’s not spreading. It takes him a long, long moment to realise that he’s afraid. That’s why he’s not reacting, you see – he’s simply terribly frightened.

Because it’s been five years.

Because the joy of having Randall return is nothing compared to the terror of standing before him a different man to the boy he’d grown up with. And he’s used up all his expectations and his certainty over the years to reassure those around him who were lacking it, leaving him only with a lot of doubt, and a lot of nightmares, but there’s no doubt in this : the young man leaning against the handrail is the boy he has been devoted to, always. But what of _he ?_ He’s reacting automatically to everything around him, hell, he’s leading Randall to his _office,_ because he’s afraid to show a little bit of who he’s become, and betray himself. This sudden realisation, the self-consciousness, leads him to brush a hand through his hair and straighten it out a little. How he’s going to appear to him, and how he’s going to react in turn, is out of Henry’s hands. The boy who’d founded Monte D’Or is going to need, for the first time in half a decade, to let the façade drop.

He needs to say something now, lest his companion believe him to be beyond caring now, but no sound comes out of his mouth. Idly he realises that he’s started crying, and let the tears stain part of his suit. Less idly, he realises that Randall has come closer, and has taken one of his hands.

“Henry,” the young man says, so softly that he feels his heart pound. “Are you alright ?”

Frantically Henry nods, attempting to wipe his face with as much dignity as he can muster. He mustn’t look very convincing, he thinks, in this state. Randall gives his head a fond shake.

“Come here.” He doesn’t look like he’s open to discussion, one hand on his hip, the other an outstretched invitation.

Henry gives a hesitant murmur, rubbing at his eye uneasily. He isn’t sure if it’s befitting, or even appropriate, but hadn’t they done the same in the lobby, before far more prying eyes ? With a reluctant blink he tries to voice his doubts. “I don’t–“

“Shut it,” Randall says curtly. “I drove across the desert for this.”

The warmth in his voice is what finally wins Henry over, and with little more opposition he steps forward, and into his arms. He feels Randall’s grip close around him and lets out the quietest of sighs, finally allowing his chin to rest atop his shoulder. This time he’s aware enough to hug back, and does so with a tight throat. There’s no better place, is there, than here, close enough to hear Randall breathe – his presence is so familiar, so comforting, that Henry feels his eyes water again.

“I missed you,” Randall murmurs against his shoulder, and it’s what undoes Henry completely.

He hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on the feeling, lest it swallow him completely, and he was far too busy to have the privilege of being swallowed by things other than work. He’d allowed that situation to stand; after all, it was so much easier than standing up to the monumental wave of sadness that would inevitably crash down upon him at some point. But silently he’s missed Randall every day, and every second of those days, to the point of breaking. He’s poured it into everything he’s done, and everything he’s built. In the little things and the bigger ones, in every choice he’s made up to now, he’s missed him. Standing there in his arms, sobbing quietly into his jumper, he realises just how much. His fingers dig into his back, teasing the wool. He holds him tighter, for all the time he spent wishing he could. The boy who’d always been by his side and stood up for him on every front, he’s got him back at last.

“Master Randall,” he hiccups, “I’m so glad you’ve – you’ve finally come home.”

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Randall tells him, voice cracking on the last word. He takes a sharp breath and lets it out shaky. Man, he doesn’t want to cry just yet, they have so much to say to each other ! so much catching up ahead of them, but he just can’t help it. The feeling of Henry blubbering softly against his shoulder, the sobs making his chest tremble, it’s getting to him. It’s hard to imagine what’s going on in his head (with Henry it always is) but it’s, most certainly, too much to deal with at once. One of his hands wanders up and gently strokes the nape of his neck, running his fingers through the thin strands of his hair. As a child he had done this often, every time Henry faced troubles, be they big or small. Whether or not he remembers, it works, and the intervals between his sniffles become longer. “I’m sorry you had to wait five whole years, looking for me, it must have been so exhausting.”

Henry shakes his head. His tone has grown sterner, albeit quiet. “I’m the one who is sorry. I should have found you sooner. It’s been five years for you as well, and if only I’d searched harder and further…!”

“No,” Randall says gently. There may be better moments, but he needs to tell him now. He leans outward, untangling his arms from around him to look him in the eye. “Listen, I haven’t been waiting five years.”

He watches Henry’s mouth snap shut, and his eyes narrow imperceptibly, glinting with incomprehension. His bottom lip is trembling, just slightly. His tears have barely dried. He looks so anxious, all at once, allowing his arms to slowly return to his sides, and stares right into Randall.

“Mas –“

“Henry, I had amnesia.”

There’s a beat.

It only lasts a few second, but it’s interminable in Randall’s untidy mind. It’s giving him the time to think all sorts of things, and worry about a dozen more, while Henry stands before him with the most unreadable expression he’s ever seen on a human being. He hadn’t been joking about giving him a chance to give him a good whack, really – he’s just brought the poor man poor news if there ever was any. Five years he’s carried a heavy burden, entirely alone. Maybe it was all still in him, like Tan said, but he didn’t go through this ordeal. He thrust it onto his friends and in turn was spared. If Henry were to get angry, he wouldn’t blame him, but it’s unlikely. The alternatives, in his mind, are all far worse.

Henry’s still not reacting, and it’s starting to make him jittery. He offers a lopsided smile and brushes the hair out of his face to reveal the white scar that marks his left temple. This gets a small recoil from his friend, which he takes as an encouragement, and thus begins to do what he does best : monologue.

“Nasty fall, it was ! There was a river running under the ruins, by some miracle it was deep enough to catch my fall, but I whacked my head hard enough to crack it open on the way down, and, well, that was it for Randall Ascot. When I woke up I didn’t know where I was, or – or who I was, not even my name. A village down the river took me in. I’ve lived there since, and I could have until the day I died, if I hadn’t _remembered,_ everything, all at once.” He takes a moment to lick his lips. They feel dry enough to crack. “A week ago we got the newspapers, we always get them late, we’re not even on a map, see, and you were right there on the front page, Henry. That’s all it took ! I had to come and see you again, and Ed happened to have driven all the way to the Dale, and he agreed to take us, right, me and my friends. If I’d remembered earlier I would have tried to find you too, I’d have gone to Stansbury and London and back, but it took five years for me to find out there was more to my life than that fall.”

He’s fully ready to keep going, if only to fill the silence, but as it turns out there is no need. Henry’s ready to speak, and what he says is :

“I see.”

Randall is pretty much floored by this one. He looks at Henry, then at his feet, and at Henry again, hoping for some kind of change, but that’s it. He sees. Those two words could be interpreted in a thousand different ways, couldn’t they ? And Henry’s not helping, standing there, with eyes brimming. If Randall were to trust his instincts, he’d say the man looked… at peace.

“The reason I came,” he pushes, aware that he needs to say it more than he needs it to be heard, “is because I needed you to know. You’ve spent all this time looking for me in any way you could, Henry, and it’s something I can never return to you fully, because it’s too big. It’s an unrepayable act. Everyone around here loves you, you know that ? But these years haven’t been happy, and it’s my fault.” He feels his cheeks flush and his eyes sting. Ignoring both is doable, but when his hands begin to shake, it becomes a challenge. “I made everyone well miserable that day.”

“Master Randall –“

“My friends and family suffered because of my decision to go on that expedition, and at the time, I didn’t care what the consequences might be. I wasn’t – I – now I need to put things right with the people I love.”

“Master Randall, please.”

There’s something in his tone that commands silence. Randall’s mouth clamps shut mid-breath and stays so, lips folded downwards. Henry takes the breach in his outburst as an opportunity to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. The touch is so gentle it hardly feels like it’s there at all.

“Consider it done.”

Randall’s gaze snaps back up. He’s heard the words alright, but they’ve left him more confused that enlightened. “I’m sorry ?”

Henry gives him a very patient smile, a smile that’s travelled all the way here over a distance of five years. It looks at home on his face. He looks happy to be smiling it again, and for the very same reason he used to as a teenager : Master Randall has a brilliant mind, but he can be remarkably slow at times. “Consider it done,” he repeats, wiping at the corner of his eyes with the hem of a sleeve. “Your mission to put things right with the people you love – consider it a success.”

“Well, that’s too easy,” he complains jokingly, to mask his disorientation. “I only just got here.”

“And that’s all that was needed,” Henry says, and his hand on Randall’s shoulder tightens its grip. His eyes narrow and search for something behind him; knowing him, he’s looking for his next words, always carefully weighed. Nothing ever came out of Henry’s mouth in vain. Staring at him deep in thought, a gentle crease in his forehead, convinces Randall that all the grief and hope and success that built Monte D’Or hasn’t changed him at heart.

“These past five years that we spent searching for you, we’ve all been haunted by one fear, or rather two – the first, obviously, was that we were wasting our time and efforts, clinging to falsehoods, and that you’d well and truly died. The second, and I must speak for myself in that regard, was that you had survived the fall, but decided not to come home. The reason was in no way important, it was the mere idea that did the job. That you were somewhere in the world, and that our paths would never cross again.”

“I would _never –“_ Randall begins to protest, but decides to bite his tongue. Henry needs to say his piece, as he had.

“But what if you thought that we all played a role in that fall ?” Henry’s smile falters a moment, and his eyes, downcast, lose focus. “You’ve chosen to blame yourself, as you just told me, but so did we. Had your mother shielded you from your father, rather than chosen the passive track, would you have considered the trip less frantically ? Angela has confided in me many times that she believed her lack of support had played a crucial role in your departure. Hershel, particularly, was driven by guilt out of Stansbury altogether. And I have asked myself time and time again if I should have dissuaded you, or held you back somehow, all the while knowing such a thing would have been all but impossible. The faith that I have in you can sometimes be… blinding.”

Have. Not had – Henry says have. The feeling that seizes Randall at the throat is difficult to describe in simple terms, and equally difficult to blink back. He feels his face flush again and is tempted to hide it, but to what ends ? This is hard to listen to, certainly, but it’s necessary. He may be lost, but he’s sure of that.

“I’m sharing this with you so that you know : we all have regrets. But in the end, it was no one’s fault at all, and we know it. Things happen without a guilty party every day, and as tragic as your disappearance was, it was one of those things. It wasn’t our responsibility, much like our grief wasn’t yours. Do you see ? At the end of the day, all we wanted was to be reassured. We wanted you to come home.”

Henry’s smiling again, and it’s hard to look at, because it’s so bright and honest. Henry, the boy who’d never been capable of lying or deceiving of any kind, is looking at him in a way that simply says : welcome. He feels intensely stupid, in that moment, for forgetting him, and everyone who has made his childhood so vivid and so warm. Better late than never, he tells himself, and leans into Henry’s touch.

“Here I am,” he whispers, unable to do much more.

“Indeed,” Henry smiles. “And I can’t be happier that it only took you five years to remember. I’ll take that over a lifetime.”

It takes some coaxing to get Randall to stop hiding his face in the crook of Henry’s neck, and when at last he parts from the suit’s fabric, he accepts the tissue Henry dutifully presents to him with blubbering thanks. Once his nose has been thoroughly blown and his eyes mostly dried, he gives his friend a grin at last, and together they start up the stairs to Henry’s office.

“Already ?” Tan’s hand lurches, spilling a few drops of coffee on his thumb. He dabs it with a napkin. “Ye’ve been gone barely ten minutes ! You certain he’s found ‘im ?”

“Completely certain,” Ed states. He’s awkwardly encased in the doorframe, unsure if he should step in or stay put. The bewildered look on Tan’s face does little to guide him. “They were talking on the second floor. I’m assuming Mister Ledore will be taking him to his office for a little privacy –“

Tan’s eyes, behind all that hair he carries around, glint brightly. He looks, all in all, like a beaming parent. “This is fantastic news !”

“After a week o’ waitin’,” Clarence grins, from his seat at the window. He has the sense to put his coffee down before it spills, and turns to the rest of the group with a conspiratorial smirk. “Boy must be over the moon !”

Out of Ed’s sight, Vincent snickers. “No more waitin’ in the lifts at night for ‘is prince charming, ‘ey ?”

“It’s a great relief to have run into him at last,” Ed concedes, fingers drumming against the door. The cosy atmosphere of the room is infection – he, too, is smiling, and not about the money. “I’m sure they’ve got lots to catch up on.”

Tan mops up the last of his spilled drink before looking back up at him. On a very casual tone of triviality, he inquires : “So what’s ‘e like, then, this Henry Ledore ?”

Is it just him, or do all the eyes in the room narrow slightly ? Vincent steps into view and hoists himself onto the counter, chewing on his nails with uncharacteristic quietness. Even Clarence leans in a little. Ed feels sweat begin the gather at the back of his neck. It takes him a moment to realise he’s not dealing with villagers’ nosiness here – this is just a very overprotective little family, and they’re demanding reassurance.

“He’s a very fine man,” Ed says, feeling his voice rise. Oh god, this is taking him places he never thought he’d revisit, back to the memories of the very beginning of his career, when he’d been an elementary school teacher and had spent countless meetings trying to convince parents that their child was in good hands. Those had not been fun years. “Very hardworking, very loyal. I can’t really tell you much about how he was with Randall – he just looked like he was in a trance. Stunned, I supposed. He _did_ think he was dead, so…”

This doesn’t entirely satisfy his little audience. Tan grumbles something and scratches at his beard. It swallows his hand up to the wrist – Ed tries not to stare. At last he offers something of a shrug, and looks around at his companions. “They’re certainly entitled to a bit o’ room, much to talk about ‘m sure,” he says, but there’s a begrudging edge to his voice. He doesn’t sound very convinced, and his friends don’t look it all that much either.

“Suppose so,” Vincent sighs, with feeling. “Still, I’d do with havin’ a butcher’s at this Ledore fella, right ?”

“Boy’s childhood friend,” Clarence muses from his spot. “Wonder what kind o’ man he is !”

Vincent offers a cocked grin. “A nutcase, most likely. No sane man could stand Boy fer an entire childhood, ‘m tellin’ ye.”

“Come ta think of it, Boy told us close to nowt about ‘im, really.”

There’s a pause.

It’s the young man perched on the counter who puts an end to it, as always. “Think we should go check ‘im out fer ourselves ?”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, so soon,” Ed puts in. His words, of course, fall on deaf ears. The three men, without an extra word between them, have reached an agreement, and begun to stand. Tan, ever the wise man, catches his anxious glances and gives him a pacifying smile.

“We’re not goin’ lookin’ for them, Ed,” he says. “We wouldn’t want to interrupt. But if we run into them in a hallway, or we all happen to meet, well, no harm in that.”

No harm in that – he supposes so. Finding no reason not to tell them, he quips up : “Mister Ledore’s office is on the twelfth floor. They’re taking the stairs, I believe.”

“Come with us,” Clarence suggests. “An’ little Liz too ! Yer both friends of Boy’s, now.”

It’s hard to pretend he isn’t supremely curious himself. He decides not to, and accepts the invitation with a nod. “She’s having a nap. I’ll go fetch her.”

“We’ll be waitin’ !” Vincent calls, as the door closes behind him. They’ve nowhere else to be, but he won’t waste any of their time – it’s their turn to stalk the twelfth floor.

When they reach the eight floor it occurs to Henry that they, perhaps, should have taken the lifts.

Just four more, he tells himself, ignoring with much will the flushed state of his face. His days are so very full of work and meetings and administration that he rarely has the leisure to walk, and as a result enjoys the novelty of it all the more. Usually, that is. Today he’s walking with someone in tow, or rather _ahead –_ Randall has been taking brisk strides that show no sign of weakening, and Henry is having trouble keeping up. He’s displaying boundless energy that his poor, office-trained legs have no chance of matching. Panting is surely below him, but my god, his chest feels tight. The knots in his sides are worth it, by his standard, if he gets to watch Randall skip ahead, jumping a step where he can. He looks so very excited that Henry can’t imagine protesting. He tries to trot up a few steps, to level with the young man, but it’s all in vain. Within seconds, he’s in front again. Breathing hard through his nose, Henry perseveres.

Halfway up this particular staircase, Randall turns around to tell him something and cuts his speech short with a short and fond laugh. Were his eyes less bright with affection Henry might have flushed with embarrassment at his state, but it’s all over his face, isn’t it, crinkling the corner of his eyes. Suddenly his slowness isn’t all that bad.

“Why didn’t you ask me to slow down ?” the young man inquires. He’s scratching the back of his neck, smiling, but discreetly abashed. “I’ll take it down a notch !”

“There’s no need –“ Henry begins, but Randall is as always : stubborn and unmoving. He’s already slowed to match his pace, one hand stuffed in his trouser pocket. The other he offers to Henry, gaze carefully ahead. The eighth-floor staircase is one of Henry’s personal favourites, because it is lined with tall, gothic-styled arched windows of thin glass, and under their pouring sunshine he feels his courage surge. His fingers close around Randall’s hand. Immediately the young man tightens his hold and squeezes.

“We can hardly catch up if I’m two stories ahead of you !” he jokes, with remarkable casualness that, much like the rest, is just like him. His thumb is rubbing small circles into the back of Henry’s hand, nearly making the poor man miss a step. The touch is so tender that it truly feels like no time has passed at all, that they’re still pacing the streets of Stansbury, always looking for an excuse to be outside the house. Randall tilts his head in his direction and asks : “What’s the news from the rest of the world, then ?”

Pleased to have something to focus on other than the infectious warmth in his chest, Henry clears his throat very lightly. “Unfortunately, Stansbury has been more or less abandoned. Most of us moved here, however, so you might bump into one or two familiar faces.”

If the demise of their village casts a veil on Randall’s good mood, the rest of the news removes it. He’s grinning a little impishly. “Heard you were in a meeting with Dalston this morning !”

“I was,” Henry confirms, not bothering to inquire as to where Randall got that information from : as always, he has his ways. “He and his hotels have… given me my share of troubles.”

“When has he not ?”

Henry catches himself smiling. “That’s certainly a good point.”

“Who else ?” Randall queries. He’s clearly enjoying being brought up to date.

“Well…” He thinks carefully about his next answer, and prepares himself for its likely effects. “Angela agreed to follow me here. I managed to convince her that you weren’t lost to us, so we decided we would wait together.”

Angela had once joked that if Randall ever showed his pretty face again, it would be a race between the two of them to win him over – at the time Henry had denied it point blank and assured her that he had always, and would always, know his place. While that attitude has not changed, he’s satisfied, in a small part of his mind, to note he has a considerable head start on her.

Possibly more considerable than he’d thought, he realises, surprised to find Randall has not dropped his hand, nor loosened his hold on it. “Is she here right now ?” he asks instead, unreadable as to what his preferred answer may be. It doesn’t really matter; Henry would never lie to him.

“She’s visiting her parents up north. The timing is unfortunate, but it was a much-needed holiday. We could call her right away, if you’d like.”

“We’ll call !” Randall confirms, but leaves it at that. “There’s time. I owe her a grovelling apology, too.”

“One that I’m sure she’ll reject,” Henry says automatically. His immediate afterthought is a little more reserved : once the joy of reunion has worn off, there might be some harsher things to be said, and heard. “As for Hershel, he moved to London, but we’ve had no contact since.”

“I know ! I phoned him ! He’s at Gressenheller, the lucky bastard, studying archaeology too !”

He says it without bite, nor without blame. Nonetheless Henry can’t help but to give him a weary glance. It reveals nothing, absolutely nothing – not a trace of melancholy. Randall simply looks, well, happy ! How he’s taken this turn of events so well is beyond Henry, who has always believed whole-heartedly in his ability to bounce back; this is just a far distance to bounce.

“Perhaps you’ll be able to join him,” he says. Randall’s thumb taps gently at his knuckles in a way that seems entirely subconscious. Like much of the rest, he isn’t sure how to take it.

“Yeah, maybe,” Randall echoes, not sounding particularly enthused. The tap-tap-tapping stops. Looking at him in the morning sunlight, skin glowing and smile easy, it occurs to Henry that there’s very much of him he doesn’t know. Five years’ worth of things that have made their mark, added to him without taking away, to discover. Had he not slowed, and had he been ahead, with only his back for Henry to study, the notion would have been quite terrifying. With him by his side, holding his hand, it feels like a privilege.

“Master Randall, may I ask you a question ?”

Randall’s head tilts his way slowly. He’d lost himself in thought, tangled up between theory and practice. The two notions have been battling rather calmly, really, for the past minute or so, waging logical warfare at the other until arguments circled around. In theory, Gressenheller was the plan. It had always been the plan ! In practice though, it’s now a little outdated, isn’t it ? It’s a five-year-old dream, and the fact he’d forgotten all about it changes nothing to the fact circumstances have changed in his life. For one, there’s Henry looking his way, with a face that’s both shockingly tired and youthful at once. His thin fingers are clinging to Randall’s in a way that suggests he won’t be the one to let go first (unless asked), in matters material or abstract. The amount of effort that has been put in to get him here over half a decade has been phenomenal, and exhausting. Leaving the city so soon after returning would be ungrateful – leaving Henry would be unimaginable.

Henry blinks, eyes narrowing, and Randall realises he’s just been staring for a full thirty seconds. He bursts into a sheepish laugh. Too much thinking ! He’s out of practice, and contemplation has never been his thing. Following his gut is a much better way to live, although it had, ultimately, led him off a cliff. Catching a smile at the corner of Henry’s lips, he goes back to that. “Yes ! Yes, of course you can !”

Henry’s pace slows to a stop. Randall, a step ahead, comes back down to his level and raises their joined hands : what is it ?

“I would like,” he says, looking straight into his eyes, “to hear about your past five years.”

“O’ course !” Randall exclaims, and leads him up the next couple of steps. “I’ll tell you all about ‘em ! Although it isn’t nearly as exciting as what you’ve been up to, Hen.”

The nickname elicits quite the flush, face hot to the tip of his nose, but he isn’t flustered enough to lose focus on his demand. “It doesn’t matter. I’d like to hear it all anyway. Down to the details.”

“I wouldn’t dream of excluding them !”

“Even the boring days,” Henry insists.

“Even the grey, boring days,” Randall agrees, clearly amused. They’ve finally reached the ninth floor, and start up the next staircase. “Although I can’t promise I remember everything I had for lunch !”

At last Henry’s mask of seriousness cracks, and a small smile shines right though. “I trust you’ve been eating properly.”

“I’m healthy ! Promise ! As a way of introductions, Hen, lemme ask you a question right back : if you walked past me on the street, and didn’t know my name, what would you guess it was ?”

Henry, whose imagination is boundless but cannot present him with a world in which Randall is a stranger, grimaces comically. “I’m afraid I have no idea.”

“Well, don’t worry ! Neither did the people living in Craggy Dale. For the past five years, they’ve just called me Boy –”

Telling the story is great fun. Craggy Dale is smaller than Stansbury by far, but housed the same amount of action, if not more. Most of it had been his fault, of course, something he tries not to sound too proud of and fails. The beginning of his life on Tan’s farm had been terrifying, clouded with the weight of everything he’d forgotten about his past and himself, but as he goes on he realises how quickly things had gotten better. It had been easy to settle for Craggy Dale, because Craggy Dale had wanted him as much as he’d wanted a home. He tells Henry about his first introductions and jobs. He tells him, of course, about Vincent and Tan, and consequently about the incident at Maureen’s. Every so often he glances his way, and Henry’s always wide-eyed and attentive, like he’s trying to memorise every anecdote down to the tone. Occasionally he smiles. That’s the best possible reward.

For his part Henry is flummoxed to hear that Randall has spent the past five years farming. Performing daily maintenance on none other than… a farm. Being a farmer, in other words. The idea is so contradictory to the ambitious but ultimately scrawny scholarly image he’d projected of himself in their youth that Henry has genuine trouble wrapping his head around it. And yet the evidence is standing right there, walking by his side. Randall’s wearing a white shirt and a sleeveless jumper on top, but the academic outfit does little to hide how fit he looks. His promise he’s been healthy is obviously true, and he’s the living proof of it. The manual labour has made him stronger, strong enough to pick up Henry effortlessly, an idea he tries not to dwell on too long lest it show on his face. It isn’t just physical, though. He looks happier than he’d ever been in Stansbury, and more self-confident. Whoever his friends are, they’re the right kind. It’s brought out the best in him, being unrooted and replanted elsewhere, and what a joy to be able to walk with him again and bear witness to it.

Thank you, he wants to say, but Randall’s not done. He’s not even close to being done, going by his word and omitting nothing. Henry can, and will, listen for hours, and when Randall has talked himself out and asks to hear about him he’ll tell his story until dark, but he wants to say thank you. Because overwhelmingly, more than ever, he means it.

Randall, in the middle of a sentence and gesturing grandly with his free hand, feels much the same.

“So of course he _does_ trip on the bucket, and it makes a noise I can’t describe,” he’s saying, scrunching up his nose. This is one story that comes up every year at Christmas in the Dale, and never gets boring. “About a dozen fish falling at once, all over the tiles !”

“A slap ?” Henry suggests. Eyebrows scrunched together, he looks very invested.

“Let’s go with that ! It makes this awful, wet slapping noise and everyone turns to look at ‘im, me included, but he’s gone and hidden behind the kitchen door, leaving _me_ closest to the scene. And I do mean close – there was definitely fish ice on my shoes at that point.”

Henry shivers.

“Everyone was very sympathetic, ‘cause I was still new and recovering, right ? But Maureen, her eyes turn to slits and she sort of hisses Vince’s name. I have no clue how she knew, I swear no one was watching. So he shuffles out of the kitche–“

The last syllable remains incomplete. Henry, who’d been attentively listening up until now and gotten rather engrossed in the adventures of this Vincent, looks up and finds Randall staring at the floor above, neck craned way back. He follows his gaze and sees what got the better of his attention : there’s a little girl kneeling between the bars supporting the handrail just above them. He only catches a glance of her before she disappears, spotted. Randall mustn’t have gotten much more of a look, but it was enough.

“That’s Lizzy !” he says, face lighting up.

He leaps up the stairs. Henry, falling behind, speeds up to limit the amount of tugging on his poor arm. Randall’s enthusiasm has not lost its infectiousness over the years, and he follows him onto the landing alert. Today is, he thinks off-handedly, the most fun he has had in a long while.

“Where has she gone ?” he wonders aloud. Before them is an empty space. There’s no sign of her near the handrail, nor anywhere on the landing. Lizzy, it seems, likes a game of hide-and-seek.

“We saw you, Liz,” Randall calls out. “C’mon out !”

A set of feet shuffle, casting a small shadow under the corridor door. Those are usually open at all times, Henry remarks, and thinks – ah ! That’s where the young lady went. He and Randall share a smiling glance.

“Spotted you,” Randall says softly, knocking on the door.

Slowly, the doors creak apart. Behind them the little girl is standing with her arms folded behind her back, her expression a poor attempt at innocence. It becomes rapidly apparent that she isn’t alone in her little hiding place, as the light of the landing shines its way through the open doorway. Behind her is Edward Brooks, the man to whom he owes an unpayable debt. To his left, a greying man in his fifties fusses with his tie. Behind the duo, two more people are standing, or rather crouching – a bearded man, eyes small pearls under his bushy fringe, and a young man with blond braids, leaning against the wall inconspicuously. One of them whistles. Henry has to fight a laugh; such a mismatched bunch, they could only be Randall’s friends !

“We weren’t looking for you,” says Lizzy, without waiting a beat. Ever the tactful little girl.

“Obviously not,” Randall nods, trying his hardest to flatten a very tenacious grin. He gives a little wave – the two men at the back return it, and stand up straight as casually as possible, in the current context.

“Pretty big coincidence, this.” The young man fingers through his braids idly. Henry guesses that this is the notorious Vincent Lee. “I mean, this place’s got ‘bout twenty floors, aye ?”

“Well, since fate ‘as led us to meet,” the bearded man offers, “Ye should introduce us, m’boy.”

“Fate indeed,” Brooks sighs, running a hand down his face.

Though they’re all playing the game, not a single one of them looks embarrassed, nor uncomfortable at being found out, except perhaps Edward Brooks, who’s trying to merge into the closest wall. There’s something implicit in the smirks they share with Randall, who has finally dropped all pretence of disapproval and started laughing. The little group unties, stepping out of their narrow burrow, the atmosphere easy. The bearded man steps past his friends and offers Henry a hand. His grip is solid.

“The renowned Mister Ledore,” he says, eyes twinkling. Henry can’t really tell, but he thinks the man’s smiling. “ ‘m name is Tannenbaum.”

Randall had referred to the man as his mentor, but he can tell, they’re more family than teacher and student. Flushed with the sudden desire to make a good first impression, Henry nods amply. “Pleasure to meet you. Master Randall has told me a lot about you.”

“Wha’, between the second floor ‘n this one ?” the man jokes. Randall tries to mouth something to him, which he misses or ignores. “It’s thanks to you that m’boy ‘ere finally got all his memories back. We’d all lost hope. Pleasure is all mine !”

“ _Master Randall,”_ Vincent mocks, over boy in question’s shoulder. “Well ain’t that all posh ‘n neat !”

“Vince, I’m begging you, put a sock in it. Preferably a thick one.”

“Maybe ye can crochet one for me then, smart boy,” he sneers good-naturedly. He turns to Henry and points at his friend : “Boy can’t crochet for _shit.”_

It’s difficult not to smile at this one, even with Randall’s blaming eyes on him. Clearly this was the correct reaction, defiance, because Vincent saunters over to him and shakes his hand.

“ ‘m Vincent,” he says. As though he needs an introduction ! “Can I call ye Henry ? I’ll go ahead ‘n call ye Henry, right. Lemme tell ye sumthin’, Henry – durin’ the drive ‘ere we were all talkin’ about ye, heapin’ praise o’ course. But none o’ us can figure out how ye did it. The friend o’ a friend is a friend o’ mine, so share the secret wit’ me, ‘ey ? How the hell did ye manage to stand Boy fer a full seventeen years ? Five minute wit’ ‘im ‘n I need an hour o’ meditation to get me head right !”

A snort escapes him before he can catch it. He covers his mouth with a hand and lifts apologetic eyes on Randall. The young man is sulking a few feet away. Of course, they’re still holding hands, which diminishes the effect somewhat.

“He has always been a live wire,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “but it’s one of the things that make his company more rewarding.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “ _Whew,_ ” he goes. “Yer posh too ! _Posh_ posh. I mean, so many words ter say ye like ‘im. I s’ppose yer right – Boy’s just cute enough to forgive the fact he’s so loud !”

How he’s managed to tease both of them, in two different ways, while maintaining that impish grin, shows both practice and discipline. Both qualities worthy of respect. Randall doesn’t seem to share the impression, and kicks Vince in the ankle.

“Fucker,” he says, heatedly. Were they not grinning at each other like maniacs, this would feel like a potential pub brawl. He turns back to Henry and gives him a nod. “Nice place ye got ‘ere, though. Big fan o’ the towers.”

“Planning on building any more ?” Randall asks, leaning his chin on Henry’s shoulder. Feeling his breath on his jaw is very, _very_ distracting. “I bet thirty pounds on the answer being yes, but I wouldn’t want that to influence your plans.”

The way he’s smiling strips that particular claim of its credibility.

“I suppose that could be arranged,” he jokes, meeting Randall’s gaze. The young man winks his thanks. “The towers _are_ popular.”

“This is worse than a fuckin’ rom-com.” Vincent makes a face, patting his jaw. “I’m gettin’ a seventh cavity ‘cos o’ you two.”

Clarence, at the back of the pack, cackles. “You should brush your teeth more often, Vince. Maybe your mouth while yer at it !”

“Clarence, Clarence, pick me up !” Lizzy’s voice calls. It’s a few seconds before she’s lifted into view, waving from the milkman’s shoulders. “Hello, Mister Ledore ! We love the hotel !”

“An’ the town !” Clarence agrees cheerfully. “Amazin’ place.”

“Thank you very much,” Henry tells them, chest buzzing with pride. It’s a pleasure to see the payoff of hard work face to face, and isn’t it a hundred times more rewarding when it’s a couple of smiling faces ? “We in Monte D’Or have worked hard to make it into the best possible experience.”

“An’ it’s fantastic !” Tan puts in. “Never seen architecture quite like it, ‘n I’ve been places.”

“Ah ! Well, it all came about accidentally. Many of the buildings have been rebuilt from scratch, and the designs have the particular function of resisting to potential sandstorms. Not everything is perfect, far from it, but we’re hoping to work on some legislature to expand –“

Randall lets his head lull against Henry’s shoulder. Across their little group, Vince is yawning discreetly into his hand, giving him a dull look. Boring, he mouths, rolling his eyes. Randall tunes him out, something he’s gotten good at over the years. He’s busy listening to Henry’s voice, spilling enthusiasm to his audience of one, and catching none of his words – they’re not the most important thing, here. Usually he’s the one who does the talking, and many times he’d told Henry he didn’t understand how he could sit there and listen, for hours on end, but he sees the appeal now. To hear him so close, animated and smiling, gesturing as he talks ! he could do it all day. He glances up at him, and he looks so _young_ , because he _is,_ and so is Randall – they’ve got so much time ahead of them to catch up what they lost. So many days ! Secretly he vows to make them all like today : surprising, and overwhelmingly happy.

“Actually,” Henry is adding, “the city was largely built on ancient ruins. But, ah, Master Randall is the one to ask about those.” He peeks at him from the corner of his eye. “His knowledge of archaeology vastly outranks mine.”

Talk about an invitation he can’t refuse ! Shaking the sentimentalism out of his head, he lifts it and gives his friends a cheeky smile. There’s much to brag about. “And I’d _love_ to talk about it. I know how much you all enjoy my lectures !”

The collective groan that answers his claim is simply oil on the fire.

It’s night time in Henry’s office. The sun sets so early here in Monte D’Or, a city where dusk rules over a great part of the afternoon. It has long disappeared behind the dunes and left the sky a satin black, sparkling with specks of light. From the large window that makes up most of the room’s fourth wall, both of them stand and stare at the small wonders of the world.

The fact that they’re standing together is a wonder in itself, an unlikely little miracle in a city that offers them on every street corner. It’s on their minds, and will be until the wonder wears off and the reality of the matter finally settles in, but there’s time for that. Tonight Henry looks down at his city and up at his beloved and measures his immense luck. Randall, leaning against the glass, is grateful for the three starts that life has given him, when most people only get the one.

Sensing a moment coming on, the young man smiles at his reflection on the glass. It’s what he does best, deflect. “Shall I ask why you have part of my bedroom wall in here, Hen ?”

“Perhaps later,” Henry replies, just a note of humour in his tone. His eyes are full of city lights. Far below them, night life goes on.

“All this for me, huh…” Out of the corner of his eye, far east, he can almost make out Henry’s house. The little cottage standing amongst the tall buildings, with a leaking roof that needs fixing. He looks at its owner, leaning so close to the glass his forehead could touch it. “You must think I’m worth a lot.”

“More than you can imagine,” he utters quietly. His head turns; something urgent, and irrepressible, flashes in his eyes. “Stay.”

Randall blinks. “Hm ?”

Henry’s back straightens, as it always does when he’s serious. “Stay. Stay here in Monte D’Or, with me. I’ll build a train line to your village; I’ll lay down the tracks myself if I must. Your friends will never be far away. But please, Master Randall, I need you to stay. I can’t – I can’t bear to watch you leave again.”

“What a thought,” he finds himself replying. His hands are jittery at his sides, palms clammy with the impression that they’re approaching a fine line they’ve been tiptoeing around for years. “That I would leave you, right after finding you again.”

Henry’s eyes widen. “I never meant –“

“I’m staying,” he says, without a shadow of doubt. “When we were younger I did whatever I pleased, because it was easy, and it’s taken me a while to realise that for every thing I got away with, someone got left behind. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m never leaving you behind again, Henry. Never, ever.” He looks up at him, smiling a rueful smile. “I love you too much for that.”

Henry, stunned into silence, whispers something back. It isn’t meant for his ears, but he can guess what it is.

“Maybe this is just me doing what I please again,” he shrugs shakily, “but one extra time doesn’t hurt, does it ?”

“Certainly not,” Henry answers, his words a thin mumble. “Not if it’s you.”

“Well then.”

Clumsily, they lean into each other. It’s sweet, and overdue.

Henry is frowning as they separate, a gentle hand framing Randall’s jaw. “If I wake up tomorrow and find this has all been a dream, I’ll be very upset.”

“So will I,” Randall grimaces. “It would mean there’s fields to plough !”

A soft sound escapes the young man, and it takes Randall a few seconds to realise it’s a chuckle – Henry is laughing, eyes glistening in the weak light. How many times has he done that in the past five years, ‘ey ? Randall decides that his presence here is clearly beneficial to Henry’s health, and he couldn’t possibly leave. When his companion offers him a late cup of tea and biscuits he accepts with much joy.

“Dash of milk,” he reminds him, settling into his office chair with his feet up on the desk. “Two spoons of sugar, please !”

Henry turns around and gives him a challenging look, raised eyebrows, cocked smile and all. “As if I’d forgotten.”

And with that, he flicks the kettle on and Randall’s feet off the desk. The touch of indifference with which both motions are accomplished is attractive indeed. That’s it, his mind is made up : he’s going to kiss this boy silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading !!! comments and feedback make a writer's day - if you're in the mood drop one below !  
> (also, although i'm not an outstanding artist, there's a little illustration that accompanies this story on my twitter @1eo_minor !)  
> have a wonderful day !


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